


NOT LOVERS

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Alcohol, Asexuality Spectrum, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Demisexuality, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Post-High School, References to Drugs, Roommates, Self-Denial, demisexual brats who can't get their shit together, will tag as things go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 70,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Childhood friends Soul and Maka do just about everything together. Except <i>sleep together. </i></p><p>Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> iiii can't stop myself apparently. big thanks to livi and lucy for betaing this because it needed it, lol. i'm sorry in advance for the overuse of popular tropes and ust!

**PART 1**

**MAKA**

.

Muted, yellow paint is _everywhere._ What had seemed an endearing shade on the swatch looks more musty and sickly than anything else, especially splattered over Maka's hands and crusted under her nails. Going back isn't an option anymore, not now that half the room is covered haphazardly with newspaper and the other with tacky paint. She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows, tightens her ponytail, and sets to mixing the can with one of Soul's old rulers again, as if stirring will relieve her of her artistic sins.

 _Told you so,_ she hears, despite being alone in the apartment, and she hates just how much the voice in her head sounds like Soul.

Realistically, she knows the whole effort is all for naught; she'll have to paint the walls the same drab off-white again whenever she decides to move out, but the lack of color upsets something deep in her soul and something had to be done about it. One trip to the paint store later and now here she is, dressed in Soul's basketball shorts and an old, stained shirt, trying valiantly to bring life into their home.

The only problem is she's pretty sure there's more paint on _her_ than there is on the _walls_. She grumbles under her breath and scrapes the side of her makeshift mixer on the side of the can, leaving a trail of pale, dusty yellow in its wake.

The front door clicks and Maka stubbornly dips her paintbrush back into the can. By the time Soul's finally shrugged his jacket off and thrown it carelesssly onto the kitchen table, she's already on her toes and struggling to color the walls. He laughs - probably in horror at the state of their living room - as she jumps and reaches desperately.

"Maka?"

"Hm?"

He sniffs loudly. "Did you, uh, open a window?"

"Why would I?"

"Because paint fumes?"

Well, that would explain the dull headache she's been nursing for the better part of an hour. She makes a growling sound in the back of her throat and drops her arms at her sides, frustrated. "I didn't think it would take this long."

"To paint? Or to _dry?_ "

"... Both?"

He's leaning over her in a second, warm against her back. "Maybe you should leave the decorating to me, half pint," he says gently, fingers already curling around hers, prying the paintbrush from her ironclad grip. "Easy. Atta girl."

Maka huffs and glares over her shoulder. He's right there, breath hot on her brow and grin smoldering. "I can paint inside the lines just fine, _thanks,_ " she scoffs, but lets him slip the paintbrush from her hand and set it down on a pile of newspaper and scrap magazines. "I don't need your help. It's late and you just got back from a gig. Go to bed, Soul."

"And leave you to your own devices? No thanks, I'd rather not wake up to a yellow couch, too," he laughs, but there's a sleepy worry in his posture, the old slouch in his shoulder that reminds her of middle school.

Only Soul would have never stood so close to her in middle school, even if she might've been his best friend and he hers; puberty was rough, brutal to the both of them, and while Soul might've emerged a head and a half taller than her he didn't escape unscathed. Soul graduated from being the shy, lonely boy on the playground to the anxious, stressed teenager locked in the music room and slaving over sheet music, things she couldn't pretend to understand. Now, though, she knows better. She's practiced in the art of honing in on Soul's moods and carefully validating without smothering him.

Maka zeroes in on the slope of his shoulders and he straightens instinctively. He's so close, close enough for her to smell the fried food of the bar and the earthy, mature notes of his cologne emanating off of him, but there's nowhere for her to go. Her choices are to remain where she is, pressed against him, or to lurch forward and plaster herself against her freshly-painted wall.

Wisely - or perhaps _stupidly_ \- she chooses to lean back into him.

Soul sighs heavily. "Maka," he says, groaning quietly when she proceeds to sink deeper into him and go limp, "you've got paint in your hair."

"It's been a long night," she mutters.

He shakes his head. "How in the _world_ \- alright, field trip to the bathroom before we get you to bed, Picasso."

.

They weren't always like this. Soul didn't always wash her hair in her - _their!_ \- bathroom sink. Once upon a time, they were nothing more than unlikely companions.

 _Once upon a time,_ Soul didn't run his fingers through her damp hair and work out the kinks in her neck. At one point, they were just two kids alone on the playground, swinging leisurely until the recess bell rang. He had never been the most outgoing kid, and while Maka had never been hard pressed for companions or friends, she'd also not been one to sit on the sidelines while bullies ran amok. Sharp teeth and lazy, droopy eyes weren't always considered roguishly attractive and hot, and between crippling shyness and his smaller stature he was the perfect target for the older kids' ire.

One lunch detention and a set of sore knuckles later, suddenly Maka was _in_.

"Do you have to use cold water?"

Soul's laugh rumbles amidst the steady rushing of the faucet. "Do you want to go to bed with paint plastered in your hair?"

She stares at the drain in mild fascination as she mutters, "No…"

"Then yes," he says, threading his fingers through her hair and rubbing her scalp mildly. Talented, talented pianist hands are almost deliriously good and she lets a low hum of contentment resonate in her throat. "I do."

Maka sniffs. Whatever he's using in her hair is suspiciously familiar - a bit musty but clean, with hints of citrus and definitely not _her_ shampoo, which means only one thing. She tilts her head and flinches when the cold water splashes her cheek. "That's yours," she blurts, barely resisting the urge to sputter when he cups his hand over her eyes to shield her from the suds. "Why are you using your shampoo?"

He laughs again, easily, and pivots her face back toward the drain. "Because your dollar store crap isn't going to clean anything, duh."

" _Duh,_ " she mocks, mildly offended. "Not _duh!_ It does the same job for twenty bucks cheaper, mister _Evans._ "

Maka can almost hear him balking, collecting his rich boy sensibilities and holding them close to his heart. Even so, he still pushes his fingers through her damp hair carefully, gentle with her scalp as he works on rinsing her hair thoroughly. "You've got build up, Maka," he says smugly, rubbing his thumbs over her temples. "Maybe because you've been using shitty product."

"I do not! You're making that up."

"Am I?"

She huffs and kicks a leg out behind her, barely catching his knee. "Maybe I'll just steal your stuff then," she says as he grunts and shuffles backwards and out of the danger zone. "Since it's _so_ _much better_ than the shampoo I've been using for years."

 _Stupid pretentious know-it-all rich boy,_ she thinks scathingly, still all too tempted to swing her legs back and swat at his knobby knees with her foot.

He hums as he turns the water off and drapes a towel over her sopping head. "No way. Pay your own way."

" _Soul!_ "

"I've got a lot of hair to wash, Maka. I can't spare a drop. These luscious locks didn't come like this out of the box, you know," he says jovially - too jovially, she thinks, and can practically taste the age-old, bittersweet insecurities oozing from his tone, thick like jelly. Before she can say anything in attempt to comfort (or scold?) him, he's patting her shoulder and leaning her back, twisting her hair in the towel and setting it comfortably atop her head to dry.

Maka watches him roll down the sleeves of his flannel sleep shirt and purses her lips. Not for the first time, she wonders how anyone so attractive could have such low self esteem; even though he's long outgrown the days of swinging alone on the playground, she's never once seen him pursue a partner.

Because no, they're not _together_.

They're old friends, roommates, best pals - but they're not dating and they're _not_ lovers. The assumption that they must be romantically entangled just because they live together is preposterous and often leaves her unsettled and overall uncomfortable. Being so close to Soul is a bit like a victory considering his overall shyness, and to diminish their companionship to _lovers_ feels wrong. She's not in it to marry him, and she's not in it for a quick, meager fuck to relieve the tension and potentially ruin the great thing they have going for them.

Of course Maka Albarn could live on her own. There's no doubt in her mind that she could make it happen, that she could be entirely self sufficient even at the tender age of 23, but it's not a question of whether she _could,_ but whether she _wants_ to. And for all of Soul's laziness and general slacker attitude, he's not a terrible roommate. More than that, it's nice not to feel so alone.

Besides, he's made it clear on several occasions that she's not his type. A few choice comments from their teen years - _tiny tits_ sticks out most of all - really put things in perspective for thirteen year old Maka. What Soul's type is is unclear, but she's pretty sure it's a woman of the more bosomy persuasion. Probably, she thinks, with red lipstick and a tight skirt, a throaty jazz singer with a cigarette perched on her lip and the foresight to open the window before attempting to paint the apartment living room yellow.

Instead of pushing it, though, she settles for brushing his bangs from his eyes and shaking her head, muttering, "You need a haircut."

Soul quirks a sleepy half-smile and turns to secure the cap on his shower products. She thinks she really likes their casual rapport, the ease they find in each other's company. There's nothing complicated about their relationship; no messy feelings, no jealousy, no accidental teen pregnancies that lead to a messy divorce and an angry, disenfranchised child. No, there's none of that - just an underlying, healthy glow of trust and affection.

"How was the gig?" she finds herself asking, shifting herself to squint at her reflection.

He grunts lazily. "Same old, same old. Shitty venue, shitty people, shitty music."

She clicks her tongue. "Your music is not bad, Soul. We've been over this."

"Eh," he shrugs, reaching to squeeze her shoulder before shuffling his way out of the bathroom. She watches him go, his reflection brushing past her as the door squeaks on its hinges. "Remind me to fix that."

"You mean remind you to remind me to fix it?" she chirps cheekily. Soul grunts from down the hall. Maka smiles wider. "Night, Soul."

"Get some sleep before two AM, Maka. You have work tomorrow."

The weight of reality sits in as Maka rubs her damp cheek. Her watch reads 1:34 AM and she has to get up in about four hours to get to work on time. Her bedtime was about four hours ago but there's something uncomfortable about tucking herself into bed before her roommate's returned, safe and sound from another night at the bar. And it's not like she has to worry about him drunk driving, or even deciding to go home with someone else, because he's just there to play music and get out.

Once upon a time, she was independent. She didn't need to know if Soul was sleeping soundly in order to find her peace of mind, and he never even asks for her to stay up to meet him when he gets home from a long night of piano and forced social interaction. It's all her choice.

She doesn't have to wait up for him. But she always does.

.

When her alarm goes off at 5:30, Maka hits snooze and allows herself those five extra minutes of shut eye before hefting herself out of bed and preparing for the day. Thanks to Soul, she can skip washing her hair and instead brushes her teeth quickly, trying hard to keep her mechanical toothbrush from making too much noise and rousing him before noon. While his bedhead is cute and reminds me of the sleepovers of yesteryear, she doesn't really want to deal with his bad attitude so early in the day. He's never been a morning person.

She moves through her routine like clockwork. Inserts bread into toaster. Grabs peanut butter from the pantry. Rations out her daily vitamins and Soul's antidepressants into little cups. Downs a cup of tea and munches on her toast before scribbling down a quick note - ' _Leftovers from last night are in the fridge! Don't forget to take your meds!'_ \- and a smiley face before rushing out the door, fully aware that Soul won't read it until noon.

Kid gets finicky when she's tardy. It's another headache she doesn't want to deal with at the crack of dawn.

Thankfully, when she strolls in five minutes late, it's not Kid who greets her. Carefully balancing her things, Maka scurries through the front door and past the secretary.

"Nice cowlick," Liz Thompson calls from her desk.

Maka pinks and fiddles with her bun. "Is it that bad?"

"No," she says sluggishly, sipping on her cup of coffee. She leaves a pink stain along the lip of the mug. "But the bags under your eyes are."

"Ugh," Maka sighs, tucking the stray hair back into place with a spare bobby pin. "Help me?"

"Alright, alright," Liz laughs, ushering her over with a wave of her hand. Maka obeys, slinking over and leaning by her desk as her coworker summons a pot of concealer from the bowels of her purse. "I've got you covered, no sweat."

"I owe you."

Liz purses her lips, clearly biting back a remark. She busies herself with working her cosmetic magic on the dark circles that have begun to blossom beneath Maka's eyes instead, patting and dabbing instead of pulling the delicate, sensitive skin that lays there. The skin is clean, freshly washed only an hour and a half earlier, so she doesn't feel so bad about letting Liz work without any primer or moisturizer.

Maka blinks and stares at her as she works. "How was the honeymoon?"

She grins like a feline, brows unforrowing as her attention sways. "Oh, you know. Sunbathing. Sex. More sex."

"Ew! TMI!"

Liz laughs and twists the cap back onto the concealer. "You asked! It was fun. Relaxing. I've never been to Hawaii before, so it was an experience. Kid got sunburned really bad though and had to spend most of the last day bathing in aloe. He's so fair skinned."

"Aw," Maka cooes, giggling a little when Liz sends her a beaming smile and tucks her provisions back into her designer back. "Did you nurse him back to health?"

She doesn't even flinch for a moment. There's no bashful blushing or doe-eyed innocence - Liz laughs, deep in her belly and sets her chin in her hands, tapping dutifully manicured nails along her cheek. She says, "Kinky, Albarn. Soul's rubbing off on you," and then it's Maka who's turning pink instead. "Or just straight up rubbing off. Probably both."

"I like to spend my time not thinking about my roommate's genitalia, thanks."

There's a clearing of a throat, and both girls look to find none other than Liz's husband standing there, slim arms folded and watching them with a raised brow. Maka jerks to attention, standing straighter as Liz waves sleepily and takes another sip of her coffee.

"Whatever's going on," Kid says slowly, "I hope it's safe for work."

"Oh, you know, the usual." Liz shakes off his concerns and scoots her chair closer to her desk. "Just discussing weather and politics."

He shakes his head and sets his attention on Maka instead. As always, he looks put together, dressed sharp with a neat haircut and a pen sitting in his blazer pocket. His overall ease, however, is noteworthy - perhaps a wedding and mini vacation was just what the doctor ordered, because even as he's enforcing the rules of the office, the tension between his brows is distinctively lighter and he's got this tiny, half smile that is reserved only for the long haired blonde before him.

Maka tries to bite back the grin. Fails spectacularly. Receives the stink eye from Kid and shrugs her shoulders playfully. "She was helping me with my makeup. She has steadier hands than I do."

"I hardly believe that," he says. "Your hands are plenty capable."

"But I've got the magic touch," Liz chirps.

Kid blushes. Maka would gag a little in her mouth if she wasn't so happy for the two of them.

"Fine," he blurts, obviously attempting to keep his composure in check. He can't keep the color from climbing up his neck, bright amidst the pale shade of his skin. A brilliant pink peeks up from beneath his collar. "Good morning, Maka. It's nice to see you again. I like your skirt."

"Thanks." It's her favorite pencil skirt, a navy little number that Soul had picked out for her a year ago. She finds herself smoothing a hand down her thigh and squirming in her heels. "I'm going to go to my desk now."

"One more thing, Maka?" Kid calls over his shoulder. "Are you planning on attending the reunion next weekend?"

She blinks slowly at him. Oh, right - their five year high school reunion. It wasn't that she was planning on skipping it, the whole thing had just slipped her mind, between the busy work schedule and spring cleaning and the like. "Yeah!" she fires right back, pleased at the easy smile that overtakes Kid's flustered expression. "Though it'll take some convincing to get Soul to come along. You know how he is."

"Antisocial?" Liz pipes up.

"Shy," Maka corrects. "But I'll pitch the idea!"

.

Soul Evans has magic hands, and she has no qualms about strong-arming him into using his powers for the greater good. It takes nothing more than a pout of her lip and _please, Soul, for me?_ for his aloof facade to snap, and before long he's standing behind her at the kitchen table and working out knots in her shoulders. He's nothing if not diligent, moving in circular motions and rolling the palms of his hands over the tighter parts of her upper back. Maka lets her shoulders go loose and moans in relief.

"Long day at work?" he snorts.

"I was late, thanks to you."

He rubs the base of her neck apologetically. "I didn't ask you to wait up for me."

Maka lets out a long breath and hangs her head. "But how am I supposed to sleep when I don't know where you are? For all I know, you could be in some stranger's bed."

"Jealous?"

Soul barks out a laugh and stops rubbing her shoulders to tug on one of her braids. She leans her head back and stares up at his grinning face. He's got one of his stupid beanies on, messy white hair barely contained, and then he's murmuring, "I meant jealous about me actually getting some, bookworm."

Maka lights up like daybreak. "I knew that!"

"Mmmmhm."

"I _did!_ Either way, I'm not jealous. What makes you think I'm hard up to get laid?"

He chortles boyishly and brushes her bangs from her eyes. Much like the brother she's never had, she thinks fleetingly, and then he's flicking her nose and admitting, between the soft bursts of his laughter, that, "You haven't had a date in months."

"That's not fair! Neither have you!"

"How do you know that?"

"You don't come home smelling like perfume."

He raises his brows. "You _smell_ me?"

While she sputters, burning pink, he grins infuriatingly and returns to his job - easing the tension in her muscles and rubbing her shoulders until she's slightly less red-faced and a lot more relaxed. Once he's worked out all of the kinks and pressure coiling tight in her neck, he starts massaging her scalp, leisurely undoing her braids while she types away at her laptop. When he nudges her cheek and she doesn't look up, he huffs quietly, moodily, and combs his fingers through the length of her hair.

The gentle prodding doesn't stop. "Makaaa."

"Yes, _honey?_ "

She can almost see the way his face bunches up at the pet name. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry, sweetums."

" _Maka_."

"What, Soul? I'm trying to work."

The sound of his heavy sigh only shakes her from her work momentarily. What really draws her from sorting through emails and replying to Kid, however, is Soul spinning her chair to face him. She's more distracted by his dumb beanie than anything else. He must be having a bad hair day if he's pulled out the big guns. Even hair gel can't solve his problems today. Personally, she would advise he just ditch the hat all together and tie it up with an elastic; it's long enough to be pulled back, and definitely soft and fluffy enough to hold a shape, unlike hers.

The finer details of her roommate's messy hair are a sizeable distraction. So much so that she doesn't realize Soul is still talking to her. _Oops._

"Come out with me tonight."

Well, that's a red flag. She must be balking, because Soul's expression switches to alarm in about three seconds flat and he's shaking his head, red eyes wide. "Nooo, _wait-_ not like a date. Don't look at me like that. What I _meant_ was you've been cooped up in here too long and you could use a night out without stressing over mailing lists or whatever."

"Soul Evans," she says slowly, "are you inviting me to listen to you play tonight?"

He catches on quickly - he always does - and shoots her a crooked, shy smile. "Take it or leave it, Albarn. This is a once in a lifetime deal. Order now and I'll even pay shipping and handling. And for a drink."

"Okay."

His brows shoot up. " _Okay?_ What's the catch?"

"Why does there have to be a catch?"

"There's _always_ an ulterior motive. You never agree to go out with me that easily."

"You know," she pipes up, "when you say it like that, it really _does_ sound like a date."

"Don't dodge the question."

"There's just… a thing."

"A _thing._ "

"Yes," she says hesitantly, already preparing herself for the excuses and the look of discomfort on Soul's face. She has to be strong. She _will not_ give in to his pouting! There will definitely be pouting, but she has to be strong - because while attending a reunion sounds like fun she doesn't really want to do it third wheeling Kid and Liz, and if he doesn't tag along with her, that's exactly what's going to happen.

The faded yellow of the living room glows behind him like a radiant halo as he stares at her. It gives him the illusion of being an angel, which she knows is wrong, because in about thirty seconds he's going to become a petulant, pouting toddler. "And?" Soul asks, tone betraying his curiosity.

How to word this. Maka squints at him through the gleams of sunlight peeking through their faded curtains. "... We graduated five years ago," seems like the best way to start the conversation so she does so, innocently enough, setting her hands on her lap as Soul tilts his head at her. The yellow glow follows him, enveloping the wispy, pale hairs that escape his beanie at the base of his neck and peek out from behind his ears. It's cute in a messy, childish sort of way and her fingers itch to tuck the strands back.

As if he can hear her thoughts, he scratches the back of his neck and messes his hair up further. "Uh," Soul grunts, eyeing her as she stares back expectantly. Maka can pinpoint the exact moment he realizes what she's alluding to and goes stark. " _No._ "

"Please!"

"Uuuugh, no, why?" he whines, pulling himself to stand instead of hovering over her. She blinks and stares at his waist as he tugs his sleeves down over his wrists. All of his tells are here - fiddling, scratching his neck, fidgety fingers, _irritable mood_ \- _this_ is the Soul of old, anxious to degrees that she might never be able to understand.

Chewing her lip is a good distraction from the pooling guilt and temper burning within her, because she's the neediest friend ever and apparently can't go anywhere without calling in the buddy system. "Because it'll be fun! Please?"

With four long strides he's at the fridge and pulling out the carton of milk. "Yeah, fun. I can't wait to hang out with people who didn't give two shits about me in high school and listen to their success stories. Really can't wait to hear all about how everyone's married with children. Good idea, Maka."

"Soul, that's my milk, not yours," she calls instinctively.

The carton does not read _soy._ He meets her eye, cracks the top open and takes a long, dramatic sip, throat moving as he glugs and slurps and then licks his _lips_ , eyes glinting.

Maka shrieks and claps her hands down on her lap again noisily. "I- you know your stomach is going to hurt! And ew, Soul, _backwash!_ "

Soul licks his lips again, just for show. "Still want to parade me around in front of your old peers? Class Valedictorian caught slumming it up with the school burnout, I can already hear it now."

Biting her lip doesn't stop her smirking. "You didn't smoke _that_ much weed in high school, Soul. I don't think you _ever_ classified as a burnout."

"Sure fooled those girls who used to stalk me around the art wing like lost puppies," he huffs, as he often does when his reputation is challenged.

It's not that she _doesn't_ think he's cool, because she does - but definitely not because their old teenage peers thought he was a hot, leather-jacket wearing stoner who drove his nerdy best friend to school on the back of his motorcycle, and _not_ because their _current_ peers think he's a mysterious, brooding pianist, shrouded in cigarette smoke and the bustle of bars. No, he really is quite cool, but it's because of the way he washes her hair in the bathroom sink and sacrifices his expensive hair products to do so, and the way he tries to drag her from her work because he knows she's overworked that makes her think so. The real stuff. The stuff only she gets to see, like a privileged little princess peeling away at his carefully maintained facade.

"Sure, Soul," she sighs, the aftermath of a smile still curling on her lips. "Whatever you say, cool guy."

He grunts at her and shoves _her_ whole milk back into the fridge. "It chilled me out," he says, most definitely pouting.

"I know."

Soul seems to ease up a bit, leaning his hip against the counter and watching the way her hands pick at her tights. "I still don't want to go."

"I _know,_ " she repeats. "I just didn't want to go alone." _Like a loser_ goes unsaid. Because really, being 23 and still single while their peers are already pairing off and tying the knot feels a lot like defeat, despite Maka never really caring as much about romance and _sex_ quite like she's been lead to assume she should.

When his expression changes and he shifts, she knows he's heard it anyway. Reading between the lines is just part of their relationship, always has been, and after more than ten years of friendship it's second nature to them.

Nothing. And then, like stone, he cracks, sighing moodily. "You owe me," he mumbles.

Maka bounces out of her seat brightly, arms already outstretched and reaching eagerly for a celebratory hug. "Soul!"

Perhaps it's a testament to their friendship that he _doesn't_ cringe his way out of physical contact. Instead he remains in his place and lets it happen, lets her throw her arms around him joyously and bury her face in the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. She barely reaches his shoulders, he's so damn tall and lanky, but it doesn't stop her from trying to surround him with herself, shorter arms and all. Soul makes a soft _oof,_ allows a bewildered laugh before sighing, " _Weirdo,_ " and circles his arms around her too, holding her just as securely to him. Soul has never bought into cheap dudebro bodysprays and all at once she's thankful for it, because whatever fritzy, expensive rich-boy cologne he's wearing this month is nicer to stuff her face into than _Axe_.

"We're having fish tomorrow," he says expectantly. Maka nods into his chest, still a little drunk on his refreshingly nice boy smell. "And we ditch the stupid thing when I'm ready."

"Of course. No questions asked."

A hum, and then, "You should wear your black dress."

"Instructions unclear."

Soul snorts. "Tonight," he clarifies, already moving to run his fingers through her hair instead. If she didn't know any better, she'd accuse him of using her as a therapy dog, but bites back the comment and instead just lets it happen, because it's soothing on her end too.

Instead, she nods and smiles secretly. "Why?"

He blows air through his nose. "Because it looks good on you? Shit, I don't know, Maka. If you're actually going to cut loose and have a night out, you might as well look the part. 'M not really Liz, but we can still primp in the bathroom mirror beforehand."

"Are you buttering me up?"

His laughter rumbles through his chest and vibrates against her cheek, pressed flush against his heartbeat. "It's all an elaborate ruse to get into your granny panties. Y- _owww,_ **hey,** ow!" He howls as she makes quick work of his wrist and pinches the skin of his arm, pouting at him as he twists and whines like a small, punished child caught stealing the cookies from the jar. "Cut it out! It's not like I haven't _seen_ them, I do the laundry- _MAYBE SOME GUY WILL LIKE THEM, YOU DON'T KNOW._ "

"They're. Cheaper!" She grits out. " _Maybe_ I should wear my pj pants instead, just to embarrass you in front of all of your friends."

He pales. "Noo, Maka- don't, they're _terrible._ "

It's impossible for her to remain mad at him for too long. His taunts have quieted over the years significantly - he hasn't made comments about her body since they were thirteen and she threatened to snap his ankle over a comment about her _fat ankles_ (whatever, Soul) - and while he seems to derive a certain humor from picking on her less than refined taste in fashion, she knows it's in good faith. They have a sort of understanding; he's allowed to pick fun at her sweater collection if she's allowed to tease him over his extensive toothbrush collection and affinity for exfoliating.

Because that's how they work. They bicker, they tease, they pinch and flick and pout and whine and then _get over it,_ with nothing more than an apologetic, easy smile and a good hug. Soul might look foreboding and challenging, but underneath all of the scowling and frowning, he really is a giant teddy bear.

Even through it all, he still lets her latch onto his wrist like a barnacle. Whichever moment that changes and he twists his way into holding her hand, fingers laced, she's unsure, but it _happens_ and it doesn't even phase her, because then she's laughing and yanking him down the hall to her room, giggling at the way he stumbles after her, long legs useless and clumsy against her shorter strides. He shuffles like a penguin and it's one of the funniest things she's ever seen - right behind the horrified shaking of his head as she plucks her middle school graduation dress out of her dresser.

"Seriously," she hears him saying as he makes his way to her closet, yanking it open. " _Black dress_."

And just like every other night she actually decides to go out, Soul does her eyeliner, and she tugs on the belt loops of his jeans to make sure his pants aren't too tight. It's a kind of friendship that doesn't happen overnight, and once she's got her heels on and Soul's hair has finally been wrestled into submission, they head out for a _not_ date night.


	2. part two

**PART 2  
SOUL**

.

Stage fright is nothing new.

Performing in front of a crowd has never been easy for him. Growing up in the shadow of a talented, perfect older brother was never a walk in the park, per say, but it's the constant reminder that he'll never be good enough and is destined to fuck up that really does him in, and the fear of doing so in the spotlight is just the icing on the cake. It's irrational. He's been playing piano almost as long as he's been able to walk and if there's one damn thing he can get right, it's shitty covers of 90's Alternative songs, and yet every time he steps on stage the age-old anxieties come creeping back up his throat.

It's getting old. He's not the same scared 12 year old, crying over his piano at recitals anymore. He's a grown ass man with a grown ass backbone. He's _not alone on the stage anymore;_ he has a band backing him - has Blake on drums, for fuck's sake, the most boisterous and attention-grabbing person he knows to distract the crowd.

There's an ocean of bar goers staring him down and he kind of wants to melt into the background. But it's fine. _It's going to be fine._ He's not a vocalist, he's just subtle accompaniment. Most people don't even notice the piano unless it's featured in a song anyway. Deep breaths. In and out. It's _fine._ He does this every damn night.

Green eyes stand out like headlights in the crowd. Big green eyes. _Maka._

How anyone so tiny can still hold such a large presence is beyond him, but time and time again she proves herself more than just _noteworthy_. Even in high school pep rallies, she still found a way to stand out, be it painting her face school colors or wrestling her way onto Tsubaki's shoulders to cheer and scream. Maybe it's the way she holds herself, shoulders back and spine ramrod straight, the picture of perfect posture, that demands attention, but he thinks it's more her eyes than anything else, so wide and vast in dizzying shades of bright green.

Or, he thinks with a smile, it's the way she waves so hard at him that she nearly takes someone's eye out that really grabs attention. She smiles brilliantly, shifting her waving hands into a twin thumbs up as she bounces on her toes.

" _You can do it,"_ she mouths. Nodding numbly, he finds that he believes her.

From behind him, Blake claps the hi-hat and coos. "Looks like someone brought the girlfriend along for moral support."

Soul snorts. "Don't let Maka hear you calling her that."

"What, _your girlfriend?_ " Blake cackles. "Isn't that what she is?"

_Not quite,_ Soul thinks. That's not really the right word for her. To be honest, he's never been able to find the right word to describe what she is to him. Best friend feels like it's not enough. _Girlfriend_ is wrong, because they don't spend their time trying to stick their tongues down the other's throat. They're not married, so she's not his wife, and she's not merely his _roommate,_ either. She's something more important. Something permanent, a presence practically tattooed on his soul.

His stomach aches. Damn milk. Maka's always right.

"Leave him alone," Jackie scolds. Soul shoots her a glance, right as she's tuning her bass, and tries to look as unaffected by Blake's teasing as possible. She meets his eye with a dry raise of her brow and shakes her head. "It's none of our business."

He finds himself grunting in agreement.

Conversation dies down as Kim approaches the mic, and like every other night, his nerves settle into his stomach and his fingers feel heavy, like they're swollen with errors, and Soul focuses on breathing deeply instead of the uproar of catcalls at their singer's choice of stagewear. He knows for a fact that Blake is not unaffected by the sight of Kim Diehl's ass swaddled in tight denim, nor is Jackie, but her curves don't silence the lurking anxiety dwelling within him any, so he looks back out to the crowd and locks onto Maka again.

Unsurprisingly, she's shooting leering men dirty looks and elbowing her way to the front of the group to better guard Kim from grabby hands and general piggish nature, like she's an unofficial bodyguard or something, wearing a tight black dress and kitty earrings. He can't help it; he breaks out into a wide smile, unable to keep himself from chortling at the sight of Maka Albarn, ready to crack a skull if it means their set goes on without a hitch (or another wolf whistle).

The music comes easily after that.

.

There might be nothing funnier in the world than a tipsy Maka trying to dance.

Not that she can dance very well sober, of course. Maka's notorious for moving to her own rhythm, often bobbing around and shifting her slim hips to beats that don't actually exist, but she has fun while doing it and it's impossible not to smile or laugh at her antics. After a few drinks, though, it's even funnier, because her coordination has been further impaired and her ordinary cutthroat bravery is exaggerated. She doesn't care what anyone thinks, doesn't care that she looks like a drowning fish, she'll bop around and wiggle her skinny legs and pretend she has an ass to shake because the music demands it of her, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't please him.

Because okay, maybe she _does_ have an ass to shake, but mostly because music has never been Maka's strong point and watching herself surrender to it, even while impaired, is a sight for sore eyes. She's also an affectionate drunk, judging by the way she shimmies over to him and tangles her arms around his neck.

"Having fun?" he asks, bemused, as he sets his cup of water down.

Maka nods vigorously. Her hands snake around him and she pulls herself flush against his chest, wobbling lazily as she props her chin on his collarbone and stares at him. "Dance with me?"

"Gonna have to take a rain check."

"Pleaaaase?"

The only thing worse than putting his music out there for the world to see (and judge) is putting his lanky awkward body on the dance floor. Sure, he has a few ballroom dance classes under his belt, which is more than Maka can say, but there's a distinct lack of boundless courage in his bones, which means she has him beat. And if it's possible to look more ridiculous than Maka just had out in the middle of the bar with her hands up in the air, he doesn't want to see it. _Or_ be a part of it.

He decides to set his hands on her hips instead. To settle her damn engine, he tells himself, because even as she's dead weight against him and blinking sleepily at him, her hips are still working and her legs still bouncing. Such a wiggle worm. He steers very clear of aforementioned shakable ass, because he's her _friend_ Soul, not her boyfriend/lover/sex buddy Soul, and doubts that under any circumstance would she want him to accidentally cop a feel, even if the fabric of her dress is stretchy and makes her hips look fantastic. Her body is not his to grab and hold. He has a very special role to play as the sober half, and that's to make sure she has a good time without having to worry about anything else but whether or not she's gotta pee.

Besides, they're not really like that. They've never been like that, no matter how pretty Maka's eyelashes are or how the color of her cheeks makes him think of rose petals or cheesy things like that. She's not Maka the slampiece or Maka the _walking mile-long legs._ She's Maka, the best friend, the roommate, the one who fixes the faucet when he inevitably accidentally breaks it.

It's the least he can do to make sure she has a good time. She works so damn hard. Finding time to unwind has never been her strong point; if it was up to her, she'd work herself to the bone. Her ambition is something to be admired, but it's her drive and determination that have him concerned. Maka never knows when to quit it.

The hands on her hips do nothing to quell the boogie machine in his arms. "It'll be fuuuun!" she wagers.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"Eeeeh," she moans, squirming in his grasp. Her hips bop offbeat. He does his best to settle her into the rhythm, leading her left and right, back and forth. "A few."

"I think it's been more than a few, Maka."

"Shhhh."

"Your breath smells like rum."

"Moooom," she whines.

Her hips are bobbing in his hands. It's distracting, but at least she's finally getting the hang of dancing. He wonders if she realizes they're technically kind of dancing now, because he's leading and she's following, but her rum-buzzed brain is too focused on trying to set her finger on his lips while she shushes him to really notice.

He winces when she tries again and spits on his cheek. Gross. "Say it, don't spray it."

"Neeeeh, but dance!" she whines. "You _never_ dance with me. You know you're a good dancer, Soul."

Her eyeliner is smudged. He stares at the smeared tip of a wing like one might a formidable foe. "Blake's here," he says, and she blinks up at him again, as if just realizing that the drummer of her roommate's band might be at the bar with the rest of the band, lurking somewhere in the shadows.

"Where?" she asks.

"I think I saw him doing shots with Kim."

Maka's cheek sets against his collarbone instead. "Ooooh."

They're definitely dancing now. There's no way she doesn't notice. Classic rock blasts from the speakers and he's effectively swaying with her in his arms, hands still leading her hips to match the song beat by beat. It's a slower tempo, something easier for her to fall into, and her arms tighten around his neck.

"I think I like this song," she notes quietly.

"Everyone likes Journey, Maka."

"I think Papa used to play this while he did the dishes," she continues, voice barely a whisper over the lingering guitar. "He'd spin Mama around and flick water at her and tell her to loosen up."

He can picture it, Spirit's red hair bright in the afternoon light, the infamous Mama Albarn hissing curses as her (ex)husband twirls her around the kitchen. "You must've been ten. How do you still remember it?"

There's a long pause in conversation. For a moment, he's afraid she's fallen asleep, because she's starting to get that jelly-legged toddler thing going on that she alway does when she's had too much to drink and doesn't want to use her knees anymore. Just when he's about to nudge her to check, though, she squirms against him and buries her face in the warm, worn cotton of his shirt. "They were happy," she mumbles.

He kisses the crown of her hair because he doesn't know what else to do and it seems right. She breathes heavily through her nose. "Song's almost over," he says, lips still buried in strands of ashy gold.

"That's okay," she muffles against his shirt. Her lips move against the space where his heart beats and something within him thaws. There's an empty space waiting to be filled. "I still like it. I'm happy."

"Yeah?" his voice cracks.

"Mhmmm," Maka hums. " _You_ make me happy. You're my favorite."

"Even if I don't dance with you?"

"You are. You _always_ do. Because you're nice."

It's not because he's nice. He's never been nice, not really, but her explanation helps him bury things that he's not comfortable digging up yet so he lets her have it. Without a doubt in his mind, he knows he'd do anything to make her happy and to remain her favorite, and it almost scares him a little that he doesn't know what that means. But he can't say he hates it, not while Maka's leaning against him and warm like home, whispering quiet affection and letting him lead, a rare feat in itself.

He props his chin atop her head and lets her lower her arms to circle around his back, tucked safely beneath his arms. His hands raise too, and then they're hugging, swaying leisurely, as the song ends and another begins, and just like that, the moment is gone and Soul's swallowing to fill the void left behind.

"Wanna head home?" he finds himself asking.

Maka shakes her head and he knows for a fact her eyeliner is even more smudged than before. Sure enough, she peeks up at him with racoon eyes and he vows to buy her a better liquid eyeliner pen.

Who's he kidding - it's not like she'll use it, anyway. He'll buy the damn thing for himself and use it on her _for_ her. At least his scene phase was beneficial somehow; he might have to suffer through Maka clicking her way through his old myspace page, but he's emerged with a steady hand and a particular talent for making eyes pop.

Not that hers need it. She blinks and he's blinded by green starlight. "Time?"

"Bedtime," he answers. "C'mon, I have your phone in my pocket."

.

Sharing a bed really isn't all it's cut out to be. Yeah, the nightmares and stress dreams are significantly less when Maka's legs are tangled up with his, but she steals all the blankets and buries herself in his pillows when he tries to take some of the covers back. Romcoms are dirty rotten liars and bed sharing isn't as romantic as his teenage self had been lead to believe, especially when one party is hungover and groans like the dead when the sun begins to peek through his heavy curtains.

" _Nooooo,_ " Maka whines when the phone in his jeans pocket begins to rumble with life. "The power of Christ compels you."

Soul snorts, staring up at the ceiling with only one leg tucked beneath _his_ blankets. "You're an atheist."

"Make it stooooop."

She's lucky she's so cute. Soul groans, rolling himself over the lump of blonde that's taken purchase in the center of his queen bed to tumble onto the floor. It's _her_ phone ringing, he discovers as he fishes around in his jeans pocket, kicking them back aside once he's got it in his hand. One look over his shoulder tells him she's in no form to answer it herself (her face is back buried beneath his neck pillow) so he takes it upon himself to take the call.

But only once he's pulled himself off the floor and made his way into the hall. No reason to further anger the sleeping beast in his bed. It's probably best to let her rest, since he's definitely not going to be getting any of those pillows back anytime soon. Might as well lounge on the couch.

He swipes the screen and brings the phone to his ear. "Albarn's phone, Evans speaking."

Liz Thompson almost sounds smug. "Good morning, sunshine."

Soul grinds the heel of his palm over his eyes sleepily. "Ugh, hey, Liz."

"I take it she had a nice time last night? It's not every day you answer her phone before she gets the chance."

"Hungover. Stole the bed."

Her laughter is almost enough to rouse him from his place (slumped on the couch) to search for something to eat in the kitchen. Almost. "Such a lightweight, that Maka. Didn't you give her any water before bed?"

"She was out like a light before we even made it _into_ bed," he says, yawning. "So to answer your next question, no, we didn't fool around."

"No peekaboo?" Liz teases.

"Not even a little bit. Drunk girls aren't really my type."

"Good guy Soul. Cute," she nudges, but he knows that without a doubt if he had answered anything else, she'd be on her way before the phone call even ended. Which is fine; personally, he'd rather have no one else fill the role of Maka's best friend than one Liz Thompson, born and raised in Brooklyn, she who takes no shit when it comes to consent. "Anyway, could you tell her I called? Patty's coming to visit soon and I had some things I wanted to talk to her about."

"Yeah," he grunts. "Sure. Whatever."

"So talkative in the morning."

"Shut up. I haven't had coffee yet. It's before noon."

"Make sure you get Maka some water and ibuprofen before she rips your head off for existing. She's nasty when she's hungover."

Doesn't he know it. Finally, he yanks himself off of the couch and slouches his way into the kitchen, trying hard to make as little noise as possible as he rattles around the cupboards for any signs of caffeine. Ah, there's the coffee. Shit, and he's still got to make hot water happen. His bones ache and his eyes are drooping and fuuuck, he's still gotta take his meds before Maka sleepily scolds him for skipping out just because she's not there to hold his hand, which means he should probably make food happen pretty soon, too.

Being the first one awake is so much work. Too much work for anyone on so few hours of sleep.

He grunts again into the phone. Liz laughs. "Just tell her I called, Soul. Don't hurt yourself trying to talk."

"Fuck you."

She laughs again and hangs up. Soul slides the phone onto the counter and wonders why she's so alert before noon o'clock. If there's anyone who understands his love of sleep and hiding in bed well after the sun has come up, it's Liz; Patty's visit must have her jittery or something. Not that it's his problem - but he's sure he'll hear all about it from Maka (and probably Kid, the newly christened husband) in a few days or so, give or take.

_Husband._ It's still so weird to think about. It'd seemed so farfetched, like a fun fantasy when Kid had come to him to talk about maybe helping him pick out a ring for Liz, but now it's a very legit reality that he kind of had a hard time wrapping his brain around. Marriage is no longer a far-off thing to consider; it's a very real possibility, something that could be considered a now instead of a future, and he can't decide how to feel about it.

Because it's not like he's ever really had a steady girlfriend or a lasting relationship. The closest he's had would probably be Maka, who was more his protector in elementary school and sister in high school than anything else. Sure, there had been moments where he thought it might be something a little more - _prom,_ perhaps - but nothing had ever come from it. For the most part, he wasn't even sure if love was a thing he did. _That_ kind of love, anyway.

Now, though… well, she s _till_ isn't his girlfriend, not really. Maybe a bit like a wife, because they live together and cook together and fight a bit like they're married on the more stressful days, but he's never really entertained the thought of actual matrimony. In fact, he's not really sure what comes next for him. In his teen years, he didn't know if he would make it to 23, and now here he is, sleepily scrambling eggs for his hung-over roomie while waiting for the coffee to be ready, the corresponding day of the weekly pill organizer popped open.

Is marriage in his future? Is marriage in his _now?_ Is he a marriage kind of guy?

He should probably be more disturbed that thoughts of tying the knot always come with fleeting, fuzzy images of Maka in white. He's not.

Soul scrambles the eggs more aggressively. Dammit, he can't stop thinking about it now. Maka had sounded so defeated when she asked him to go with her to the damned reunion because she was still _single._ Maka's never given a shit about being single before. In all honesty, he was sure that she preferred it. Why else would she never date? It's not like her parents set a great example for her either. All signs pointed to Maka, single and successful and doing her own thing forever.

Maybe she wants to get married someday. Maybe she wants to have _kids._

He burns himself on the frying pan thinking about that one.

.

Once she's got about a gallon of water in her and a healthy dose of pain meds, Maka's much more agreeable. She sleeps the better part of the day away and rolls out of bed to order takeout with him - thankfully, only once he's silenced haunting thoughts of his best friend sporting a cute baby bump and a glittering ring on her finger - with a sleepy smile.

He tries hard not to stare. God, what is wrong with him? It's just Maka. The same Maka that studied her ass off to be Valedictorian of their graduating class and helped him work up the nerve to talk to someone about his depression and anxiety.

The same Maka whose hips had been in his hands last night. _Goddammit._ The last thing she needs in her life is another guy who thinks with his dick. Her gross dad is enough for several lifetimes. Soul dials it back to 0 and locks that shit down deep. He's gotta, especially since Maka's taken to using his lap as a pillow and her face anywhere near a rowdy penis is destined to be a bad time.

He's really not nice. His penis, especially, is Not Nice, and definitely belongs in time out for harboring improper thoughts.

Maka steals from his plate of fries and he takes a big bite out of her burger, just to normalize things between them. Cuddling is not supposed to be weird. They've been doing it for years. Stupid Kid. Stupid _wedding,_ disrupting the natural order of things.

Most of all, stupid _high school reunion_ for bringing all of this to the forefront.

"Liz called," he says pointedly. "Says she wants you to call her back. Something about Patty coming to visit?"

Maka yawns and snuggles her cheek against his sweatpant-clad thigh. "I'll get to it in a bit," she mumbles, eyes lazily watching the TV flash. They're watching it on mute with subtitles because she's still sensitive to noise and he feels a little guilty for letting her drink enough to get hungover anyway. There's a distracting urge to run his fingers through her hair, but they're greasy from fried food and it's probably a bad idea, all things considered, so he elects not to follow said urge and instead just stuffs his bacon burger into his mouth.

Still, though, it's probably in his best interest to push the subject. "Sounded important. She mentioned it twice."

"Patty's always important to her."

The muted flashing of the tv screen casts shadows on her face. It almost washes out the smudged makeup around her eyes as she lazily nibbles the tip of a fry. _His_ fry.

He takes pity on her because she's hungover and it's kinda-sorta his fault and surrenders the rest of his fries to her. Maka makes an appreciative hum and holds the paper plate closer to her heart, cradling it to her chest as she picks at the contents sleepily. For the moment, it seems that everything is right in her world, with Hoarders on mute and a plate full of potatoes in her grasp, and he smiles at how easy everything is.

Licking his fingers clean, he asks, "When're you going to call her back?"

"Soon?"

"You know she's not very patient."

"But," she whines, rolling onto her back to better pout at him, " _Hoarders._ "

He can't stifle the smile that splits his face. "They'll still be hoarding when you get back, promise."

Her expression sours adorably. Much like a mother, he uses his damp finger to wipe away the smudged remnants of her eyeliner, passing along the tender skin under her eye with gentle precision. She hisses, swatting at his hand. "Dooon't. Ew, Soul!"

"Your fault for not washing your face before you fell asleep. I bet it's all over my pillowcases, too. Like a war zone."

" _This_ isn't an eyeliner war zone. I've seen pictures from your scene phase."

Sputtering is very not cool. He's doing it anyway. Maka smiles wide, like the smug little demon she is, and he chuffs and flicks her nose, absolutely _not_ pouting. "You're one to talk, miss braceface."

Her growl sounds like a miffed kitten caught in a blanket. "It was only for a year!"

And what a glorious year it was. Was he petty for devouring popcorn in front of her just because he knew she couldn't partake too? Yep. Did he regret it? Not really.

...A little. Not enough to refrain from arming himself with whatever dirt he has to battle her knowledge of his infamous scene phase.

In their early years, it was comforting for him to find a chink in her armor. Pre-Albarn split, Maka had been the picture of ideal student, ideal child, soft blonde hair tied in neat pigtails, waving happily as her Papa smooched her cheek and dropped her off for school. There'd been a part of him - however miniscule - that resented her a bit for having such doting, adoring parents. It wasn't until the divorce that he really felt like he knew her, because suddenly there was something in common, a connection - and he finally felt like he could contribute to the friendship, moreso than just relying on her uppercut to ward off his bullies. They were lonely together, confused and young and angry, and fell into what would end up a lifelong friendship before they were really old enough to know what it meant.

He drops her phone on her lap. "Just text her, smartass."

Maka squints at her phone and immediately dials the brightness back to a more reasonable level. She chews her lip as she types and it's distracting (Soul makes a mental note to sip some lip balm in her purse), enough so that he doesn't creep on her conversation and read the message she sends out to Liz.

The phone buzzes to life within minutes. Maka blinks drowsily and swipes the screen. He thinks she's distracted too, so he runs his fingers through her hair, but she purses her lip and murmurs, "Did you remember to take your meds?" even as he's fiddling with her split ends.

He sorts of wishes she wasn't always so perceptive, even while mildly hungover and dosed up on ibuprofen. "Yes, mom."

"You promise?"

It's for his health, he knows that, but he still grunts as she nags and pushes her bangs from her eyes. "Took them with breakfast."

She flickers a glance at him. Even hazy with fatigue, she's still brighter than anything else. Dammit, green is a cool color, it should _not_ burn him alive. "Proud of you."

Heat swamps him and he can only hope that the color in his cheeks is minimal at best.

Judging by the tiny smile that curls her lips, it's not. Fuck. Soul feels a lot like a dog (he's a _good boy!_ ) for being so pleased by her reaction. He does not pant and does not wag his imaginary tail at her. He is not man's best friend.

He's just Soul, mildly depressed and anxious to the nth degree, and Maka just happens to know better than anyone else what his demons do to him, so he steels his stomach against the stupid pleased fluttering and says, "Yeah, thanks," and watches her nod, that quiet smile still in place. It warms him like afternoon sunshine. "How's Liz?"

"Excited to show Patty around the new house. Nervous about the reunion, like you," Maka says, switching effortlessly to another app. "Did you check my cats for me?"

"I am but a humble servant."

Her hand pats his cheek and she murmurs her thanks. A pleased, validated hum roars to life in the center of his chest. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

(He's a good boy, fuckitall).

.

Dean Mortimer Jr. (or _Kid,_ for short) excuses himself before entering the next day, carefully balancing a tray of cookies on one hand and holding his wife's with the other as he politely nudges the front door shut with a slim hip. He's dressed immaculately for a night of board games and wine, smart button up done to nearly the top button and sleeves cuffed at the elbows, slacks pressed with crisp pleats down the middle. Even his hair is done nicely, styled carefully so that it remains even on both sides. Meanwhile, on his left, Liz is dressed down, high waisted jeans and sandals, long blonde hair pulled up into an effortless bun, face bare sans a coat of mascara.

He wonders if it's what he and Maka look like in reverse. Maka in her smart sweaters and neat hair, he and his leather jacket and purposefully tousled mess.

He cuts the thought short because Kid and Liz are married and paralleling it leaves messy connotations. Soul takes the cookies instead, grinning wolfishly when he stuffs one in his mouth and Liz clicks her tongue.

"I called first dibs," she sighs dramatically, snatching one from the pile and munching eagerly. "Maka's got the drinks?"

"Yeah. She might need help reaching the glasses, though."

Liz goes to assist, but Kid's already beat her to the punch, scooting by with a quiet "excuse me" as he makes his way into the kitchen, skirting by the edge of the counter with ease. All things considered, Soul probably could've reached the glasses easily (especially considering _he's the one that put them there_ ) but he's got a platter full of baked sweets now and sue him for being distracted. They're wonderful and Kid is meticulous with his baking and it shows.

"Those have dairy in them," Liz informs, snatching a few from his grasp before he has a chance to taste such forbidden fruit. "Maka said it gives you the shits."

"You don't know my life. Let me live."

She shakes her head, bun bobbing atop her head. "Kid made some for you. They're on the top."

"Maybe I want the other ones."

Wisely, she snatches the plate away and escapes to the kitchen. Just as wisely, he tails behind her, long arms reaching greedily onto the platter over her shoulder. He doesn't shy away when she play bites at his wrist.

"Maka, your boyfriend is ignoring his allergies again."

She bristles from her place at the table, halfway through setting up the game of Scrabble. It's almost routine, the way Liz teases and prods their relationship, but she still pinks violently and pouts, hissing, "He's not my boyfriend!" quickly, like a catch phrase, before following it with, "Eat your lactose-free snacks, Soul!"

From her side, Kid smirks and pops the cork on a bottle of red wine. "I made plenty."

Of course he did. Soul bares his teeth and snarls, calling upon his old defense mechanism, but it hasn't worked for years and instead of getting what he wants (actual, real person food) Maka slides him his own personal plate of fake cookies while the three of them get to pig out on the real deal. It's like being quarantined. He steals the bottle of wine for himself and holds it in his lap like a captive, frowning deeper when Liz makes a grab for the bottled nectar.

If he can't have what he wants, no one can. And he's not above bartering. He pokes the neck of the bottle over the lip of the table like a smuggled secret and narrows his eyes at her. She blinks back at him in return. He nudges his head toward the towering pile of milk-infused sweets.

She furrows those perfect brows of hers. "Maka-"

"Don't," he warns lowly. "This is a two person deal."

"What, are you thirteen?"

"I don't want to eat cardboard all night. It's not fair."

She rolls her eyes. Luckily, Kid and Maka are too busy intensely consulting a dictionary to notice their little deal spring to life.

"Kid's a great cook," Liz says, a little lower this time. She bows her head and Soul scoots his chair closer. "It's not like you have a _gluten_ allergy. Those cookies are fine. I had one on the way here."

"I'm lactose-intolerant, not _allergic._ It's fine. I have pills."

Her breath tickles his ear as she leans closer. "I don't feel like waiting for the bathroom because you have the shits, _Sullivan,_ " she whispers cruelly, and something goes off in him like a bomb. Affronted, and surprised, he jerks back, glaring from her to Maka in quick succession.

"How do you-"

"Best friend. Tells me _everything,_ " she says innocently. Far too innocently, he thinks, for someone reaching into his lap - and before he has the chance to reclaim his prisoner, Liz's fingers are laced around the neck of the bottle and she's successfully rescued the wine. "Aha! Gotcha."

He scowls deeper and turns to further glare at Maka. She blinks up from her dictionary, big green eyes wide and seemingly blameless - but he knows better. Her head tilts as her brows furrow, staring right back at him as he slouches further in his seat and stuffs one of his wannabe cookies into his mouth. There's a reason he doesn't go around broadcasting his full name. He can only hope that Maka hadn't blabbed and told Liz his middle name, too.

Judging by the way Liz grins victoriously as she pours herself another drink, he's fucked.

"What?" Maka asks lightly.

Soul pouts further. "Traitor."

" _What?_ "

"He's just upset that we won't enable his toilet quest," Liz says smugly. "Aaaanyway, is it my move yet?"

Kid drums his fingers on the table. "It's Soul's."

How game night came to be is still a mystery. It should be odd, to be crammed around a tiny table and playing scrabble with three of his friends ( _friends!_ ) but it's not. He can still remember a time when companionship was hard, when putting together full sentences was a task and even being around others was draining. It still is, of course, but considerably less so around the right folk. These folk, apparently, as odd and different from him as they are, and as his gaze settles on Maka, who nibbles on her nail distractedly while Kid continues tallying up the points, he's overcome with an overwhelming sense of comfort and home.

Even if Liz knows embarrassing things like his name. Even if Kid bakes him his own personal stash of lactose-free sweets.

Even if Maka nags him like a mom and cares for him like a sister. Right?

He tries to be nonchalant about it as he forms a measly 4-letter word off of Kid's more impressive 7-letter creation, mumbling, "You guys excited about the reunion?", but his voice cracks and there's nothing chill about the way he tries to swallow back the bubbling anxieties.

Liz shuffles in her seat and takes another swig of wine. Kid answers for her, smiling brightly, teeth impeccably white. "Yes. I can't wait to catch up with everybody again. Plus I get to introduce everyone to my beautiful wife."

Said beautiful wife burns red and tips her wine glass back further. Maka laughs and nudges his shoulder. "Lovebirds."

"Are you?" Kid asks him back, very seriously. "It's alright to be nervous."

"Thanks, but I didn't sign up for a therapy session during a game of Scrabble. I'll have to decline."

He shakes his head. "Always so polite."

"He's coming with me," Maka answers, effortlessly as always. She has a funny habit of answering uncomfortable questions for him, and while he's a little annoyed that she can get into his head so easily, he's mostly thankful. She smiles at him lightly. "But I'm excited. I haven't seen Tsubaki since she moved to Canada. It'll be fun to see everyone and how far they've come from high school."

"And see who knocked who up," Soul pipes up, grinning lazily at the way Maka huffs at him. "C'mon, you know you're curious."

Because he's more than a little curious. Even more than that, though, he's curious to see just how many of their peers have tied the knot, in a nosy kind of way.

It might be the only bright side to the whole obnoxious shindig. High school sucked, why should he want to go back and relive his so-called golden years if most of them were spent avoiding people and trying too hard to be aloof? He's not that person anymore. He's grown. It's only because he doesn't want Maka to have to go alone that he's even attending at all, after all. For her sake.

And maybe because he wants to prove that he's not alone. Just a little bit. He has a cool, brainy roommate and friends and a band, alright? He amounted to a lot more than nothing, and so what if he wants to rub it in someone's face, just for a moment?

Liz slams her empty glass down and dumps her letters on the table. It's a suitable topic change, if that's what she's going for. "Alright, I have like no points and even Soul's kicking my ass. Maka, help me."

And like clockwork, Maka dutifully scoots her chair over and starts separating the vowels from the consonants.


	3. part three

**PART 3  
MAKA**

.

In the early days of their friendship, before Maka knew of Liz's past, she was jealous of her.

The girl was bold and beautiful, blonde and shapely, like every girlfriend Maka's father had ever brought home post-divorce. Her dislike was misplaced, of course, and influenced heavily by a hearty serving of internalized misogyny with a side of envy. It wasn't that Liz was _ever_ purposefully rude to her, or had even hinted at being unfaithful to Kid - it was Maka's paranoia, Maka's _insecurities,_ and to find out that Kid's hot new girlfriend had quite literally lived on the streets and raised her sister from the age of thirteen did a fantastic job of turning Maka's perception of her upside down.

Now, though, is a different story. Much different. They meet for coffee and brunch every Sunday afternoon. They share clothes, sometimes, permitted it's something that won't look painted on Liz or frumpy on Maka (skirts, mostly).

"He just doesn't _get it_ ," Liz vents, groaning as she shoves her coffee away to rest her head on the table. Her honeyed hair splays over her tan arms like a golden halo and Maka bites back a comment. Instead, she slides Liz' coffee closer to the middle of the table and rubs the pink lipstick stain from the rim of the cup with her thumb.

"I don't think I get it either."

"He's rich! And good looking! Fuck, they're all expecting some size-two high-society doll who can speak French to be his wife. And instead he's going to show up with _me._ "

Maka's brows raise incredulously. "Liz, he loves you. He's so happy to be your husband. He has a picture of you in his wallet."

Liz groans and slumps further. "I know!"

"You're not going to embarrass him. Besides, there's nothing wrong with you."

"He married a felon!"

Maka sighs and stirs her tea. "Liz, the worst you did was theft, and you and I both know it was to put food on the table for your sister. You're not a _felon._ "

Liz gives a muffled moan and shifts, pressing her cheek against her arm. Maka finds herself brushing the hair from her friend's face, smoothing it down almost maternally as Liz gives another moody sigh and purses her lips. " _You_ know that, and _I_ know that, but your old high school pals don't. He sees the best in people. I mean, he sees something in _me,_ doesn't he? He managed to look past all the bitterness and anger and thought I was wife material, and he doesn't understand that not everybody sees the world the same way he does… it's going to be a mess. And I'm going to embarrass him in front of all of his old peers."

"Liz," Maka says. "He hasn't seen a lot of these people since he was eighteen. He's a grown man now! Even if _they_ don't like you - or approve of you, or _whatever_ \- it's not going to change his opinion of you."

Because really, Maka sees the way Kid looks at his partner, the way his smile goes soft and the way he kisses her forehead when she stretches after a long day of work. Kid has always been kind and courteous, sure, but there's something different about the way he looks at her. It's cute, in all honesty, and a lot sweet, and manages to bring forth an unfamiliar ache in her chest the longer she watches them lean into each other. They're together, the two of them against the world, and it must be the unwavering companionship that makes Maka feel that much more alone.

Her tea is warm on her lips. She swallows quietly and watches Liz prop her chin on her wrists, blue eyes weary in the daylight.

"You knew Kid in high school," Liz mumbles, as if this is suddenly news to her. There's a gleam of realization, and then she asks, "Was he always like this?"

"Like what?" Maka asks with raised brows.

"Did he always treat his partners like they were queens?"

The thought is both amusing and adorable, and Maka giggles at the notion. "No," she answers finally, after a beat, "but only because he didn't really date in high school."

"Never?"

She hums, considering. "He went out on a date with Anya once, I think."

" _Anya?_ Is she coming?"

"You won't be the target of any jealous ex-girlfriends," Maka says soothingly. Quite the opposite; Facebook tells her Anya's in a relationship currently with two lovely ladies, neither of which really sport any similarities to Kid, aside from maybe a similar hair color here and there. Nothing to base a relationship off of, anyway. Still, it's funny to think about, and she laughs again, waving off Liz's concerned flailing with a shake of her head and a smile.

"Are you sure?" Liz asks, leaning forward.

Maka nods. "Positive, trust me. He was never really her type. The most they had in common was their money."

Liz's shoulders loosen, finally, as she relaxes, leaning back in her chair and heaving a sigh. Looking at her like this makes Maka wonder why she had ever been jealous of her - because while Liz was cool and down to Earth, she was also just as insecure, beauty be damned, and if that's not something that hits close to home she's not sure what does. She's tough but soft, sharp tongued yet soft beneath all that armor, and that's something they have in common.

Liz offers Maka an exhausted smile and she's overwhelmed by how much it reminds her of Soul and his crooked, sleepy grin. Ah, maybe that had been why she was so antsy around Liz early on; if Soul had a type, she's sure Liz would be it.

Not, of course, that she's jealous of Liz for being Soul's type. They're not like that, _never_ like that - Maka's just protective of him, because he's her best friend and practically her brother and if she learned anything from her parents, nothing good comes from a beautiful woman in knee-high boots and tight jeans.

Maka blinks back the thought and Liz quirks a brow at her. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she breathes. "... _Yeah_. Never mind."

It's not until after they've gotten their food and Maka's bitten into her chicken sandwich that it comes up again. This time, though, it's purposeful, as Liz yawns dramatically and tugs her arms up in a spectacularly dramatic stretch. She levels Maka with an even stare and asks, "Oh, hey! How's the boytoy?"

She nearly chokes on her food. "I- Who, _Soul?_ "

"Yeah, that's the guy. Did you two have fun the other night? I heard you got wasted," she says, grinning, scooting her chair forward. Her nose stud catches the light just right and glints distractingly. "Anything juicy happen? Tell Liz your secrets."

"Wasted is an exaggeration," Maka says, pouting. "I just had a bit too much to drink. Soul wouldn't let me drink _that_ much, you know that."

"You didn't answer my question."

She hums in thought, picking at the lettuce in her sandwich. "We had fun," she says honestly; there had been music and fried food. Soul had danced with her, despite his reservations. Soul had held her hips in his hands and been so warm, so cozy, as he let her lean on him and sway. She elects to not let Liz in on that little bit of information, if just because she knows she'll take it the wrong way, and instead finishes it off with, "His band is really good. I'm glad he let me come and watch them."

"Maka canoodles with the nightlife. They grow up so fast."

"I go out sometimes," she says stiffly.

Liz stares at her. She even stops twirling her chicken alfredo to really drive the point home. "You spend most nights reading. Alone. In your shitty apartment."

"I like reading!"

"That's not going out! You work too hard. I swear, the only time you get out is when either Soul or I drag your tiny ass somewhere. And Soul hates crowds."

She tugs at her collar and squirms beneath Liz's searching gaze. Of course she knows this, has always known this, but hearing it put so blatantly makes her stomach flutter uncomfortably and Maka's always been good at dealing with things like sentiment, but this has her paralyzed. "He's my best friend," she reasons, as true an answer as any. "I would do the same for him."

Liz smiles knowingly. She takes a bite of her pasta, brows raised, and clearly doesn't believe her for a moment. And it's not that Maka told a lie, it's just that she didn't tell the whole truth - Soul would do anything for her and she him, and okay, maybe it's a little heavier than friendship.

.

She kind of wants to call him her brother, just to see how it feels on her tongue.

It sort of makes sense to her. She's known him practically her whole life, since the beginning of elementary school. That makes them practically family, doesn't it? She punched his bullies in the nose and he held her as she cried through her parent's divorce. It sure sounds like standard sibling fare to her. She cares about him. He cares about her. They fight. They live together. They tease each other and sometimes pull hair and tickle and cuddle.

Sometimes, though, Soul smiles at her and her stomach does this spectacular flipping thing and her chest gets really tight and she doesn't really know what it means. Papa's smiled at her thousands of times and it never made her flush. Mama too.

She wiggles her toes and closes her bottle of nail polish. From across apartment, Soul gasps and drops the wooden spoon. It clatters on the tiled floor and he swears under his breath.

"Soul," she calls.

"Huh?"

There's pink on her toe. She rubs away the smudged polish and sucks her lower lip into her mouth in determined concentration.

"Maka?" Soul tries again.

"Do you love me?"

He swears again and probably drops the entire pot of spaghetti, the clattering is so loud. Maka realizes her flub and pinks fantastically as she frantically tries to correct herself. She hollers again, yelping, "I meant like a sister!" as if it will alleviate the way her blood sings and her heart pounds. What the _hell?_

"Uh-" Soul's voice sounds strained. "I, what?"

"I meant like a sister!" she yells again, quite tempted to bury her face in her hands and lock herself in her room for the rest of time. "I was thinking- I mean, we've known each other for so long, and-"

"-And what?" he asks, suddenly in the living room with her. He looks winded, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms tan and freckled and distracting. Maka peeks at him through the cracks of her fingers, mortified. " _What,_ Maka?"

Her mouth feels dry. She doesn't know anymore. She doesn't know _anything,_ God, except he looks homey and he's actually tied his hair back to cook for once and the surge of affection for him is both comforting and sickening. Why can't she decipher the difference between familiar love and romantic love anymore? She's always been able to. It was always so cut and dry, her begrudging love for her father simple because he's her father and worlds away from the love stories in her romance novels that leave her tummy fuzzy and legs warm.

This isn't quite so black and white. She looks at him, as if suddenly, finally realizing that he could be more than just one thing in her life, more than just her best friend. More than just her roommate.

Like her brother. "You're my brother."

He stares at her, face just as red as his eyes. " _What,_ " he repeats, like a broken record. _Congratulations, Albarn, you've officially rendered him speechless. You broke him._

"We've been friends forever," she says around her fingers. Sometime between Soul rushing in and her Mistake her hands must've slid down her face. "We're like siblings, right?"

He shifts his weight. "Uh, I mean-" he says, teetering, unsure. She can't look away. "... We're family. You're my family, I guess. More of a family than my parents have ever been."

She's never had a sibling. He has, though. He has _Wes,_ as strained and unusual as their relationship might be. She wants to ask if he loves her the way he loves Wes, but the question gets caught in her throat. Fear nips at her toes and she can't help but worry about what would happen if he _didn't._ She swallows the urge and presses her hands into her lap, pulled tight into fists.

Soul continues squirming. "Can I- uh-"

"Go finish dinner," she blurts. "Sorry. Um. For the false alarm."

For a moment, she thinks he might say something more, might shed some more light on the subject. He's more the expert on sibling relationships than she is, after all, and as nervous as she is over the final verdict there's still a curious part of her - ever the insatiable bookworm - that wants to know. She likes to be able to compartmentalize. It makes things easier. She likes to think she's an organized individual, and her inability to sort Soul neatly into her life makes her fingers itch.

The fact that she's not sure if she wants to punch him or hug him half of the time is evidence enough that she needs to do some soul searching.

Finally, _eventually,_ he grins.

But it's forced, and his teeth glint bright. Her fists clench the fabric of her skirt between them tensely. "Always a tease, Albarn," he says, voice almost husky, and something shifts within her. "Dinner will be ready in ten."

"Okay," she says.

She watches his ass as he goes. Like a sister, of course.

.

Liz is kind of the devil for putting these thoughts in her head. Soul was her best friend a week ago. Why can't she go back to a week ago? Things were so much simpler when she wasn't worried over whether or not the urge to brush Soul's hair back while he naps can be sorted into platonic, familial or _other._

Soul's not due back for another hour, which gives her a grace period to lounge around the apartment without fear of selfish things like feelings ruining the best thing in her life. She needs to get her head screwed on straight. Preferably before the damn reunion; feeling so awkward and unsure around him will tank the whole night, and _she's the only reason he's going._

She's the worst. What kind of best friend is she?

Maka Albarn is not Soul Evans' type. Maka's known this for years. He's artistic, creative, sensitive, and she's booking and methodical. He likes _women,_ not girls. Hips, ass, _tits,_ though she knows he would never be shallow enough to outright deny a girl based on her looks. It sort of melts her a little bit, because he's really sweet and a great guy and any girl would be lucky to date him. She knows he's trustworthy and loyal. She's lived with him for years. She's known him for longer.

Maybe that's it; maybe she's mixing everything up because they've known each other for so long. Things are bound to get confusing after more than ten years of friendship. He's washed her hair for her. She's held his hand in the doctor's office. They've slept in the same bed more times than she can count without ever actually _sleeping_ together.

And yet she's still a virgin. And she's pretty sure he's still a virgin, too. And she's not sure what it means that they've never really dated each other but also never dated anyone else. Is she waiting on him? Is he waiting on her? Is this what a love epiphany feels like?

She kind of thinks she might be sick. Her headache makes her nauseous.

She needs serious help. Advice. But not from Liz, because all of this is her fault. Soul's hands on her hips hadn't felt like a big deal when she'd been drunk and pressing her face into the soft cotton of his shirt. Now, though, it's colossal. And terrible. But mostly colossal.

Maka lifts her phone and clicks the home button. Soul's face stares back at her, grinning lazily, shielding his face from the sunshine, shades hanging off of his nose. What does it say about a girl who has her roommate as her phone background? Is she clingy? Good God, is she becoming her father, globbing to the first person to give her attention? Will she chase him away, like Papa did to Mama?

Will she be left alone, humming along to Journey while she scrubs the dishes?

She's calling Blair before she has the chance to sit on the thought.

"Hello?"

"I think I'm dying."

There's panicked shuffling on the other end. "Maka?"

She hiccups and scrubs her eyes. "I think- how do you know when you have feelings for somebody?"

Her step-mother sighs gingerly. "Kitten, don't scare me like that. I thought something was actually wrong."

Something is very wrong. So wrong that she can't even look at Soul without wondering what it might be like to kiss him and she's going to be sick, oh God. "I don't want to ruin everything," she blurts damply.

"Oh, _Kitten._ You won't. Do you want me to come over? Is Soul there?"

"No." But he will be in an hour and she needs to get her shit together. Maka wipes her cheeks and pulls herself up to sit. "Oh no, Blair, are you at work? Shoot, I'm sorry."

"Shhh, no," she says soothingly. Now that she's focusing, Maka can hear low bass in the background and her stomach plummets guiltily. "Blair always has time for her Maka. Tell me everything."

"I just-" she starts, breathing deeply. There's so much she has to say at once and it's difficult to keep the frantic babbling to a minimum. Feeling silly, like she's thirteen and finally experiencing all of the magic and frenzy of her first crush, she hugs her knees to her chest, phone cradled to her ear. "... My high school reunion is soon, so I asked Soul to go with me-"

Blair hums knowingly. "So this is about _Soul._ "

"I- I don't know!"

"That's okay," Blair says slowly. "That's _okay._ There's no time limit on feelings."

"But the reunion… he's only going because I asked him to, and now everything is all weird, and I keep thinking about his hands and _that doesn't even make sense-_ "

"His hands?" she practically purrs. Maka squeaks. "What about his hands?"

"They're… pretty." And strong. And _dexterous_ , and she needs to cut that thought short immediately. She files it away under inappropriate thoughts about her bestie and locks that mental cabinet tight.

"Mmm, they are. I bet they're talented, too. Piano fingers and all. _Long._ "

She's on fire. "Blair!"

"Sorry, sorry! Continue. Why is liking Soul a bad thing again? He's a good boy. He takes such good care of you. And you know he's loyal."

"I don't like him!" At least she doesn't think she does. "I'm just… I'm confused. I thought he was my best friend for so long, but Liz got married and she's so happy, and Soul's never dated anyone and I never date either, and…" Maka trails off, biting her lip. The TV glows across the living room with cartoon reruns but they're not distracting, not anymore. "I don't want to make things weird between us."

There's a pause where Blair must be collecting her thoughts. Maka busies herself with collapsing back into the couch cushions, legs limp and eyes aching. Her bedtime was two hours ago but she's up late again, waiting up for him as if it's her job or something. The whole thing is so ridiculous, and she's old enough to go to bed on her own, but she looks to the door anyway expectantly.

"But if you have these feelings things are going to be weird anyway," Blair says finally. "Why don't you just talk to him about it? If he feels the same way, you two can test the waters. Just make sure you have a few condoms hanging around."

" _I'm not going to sleep with him!"_

Soul stares at her as he shuts the door behind him. Maka clasps a hand over her mouth and wonders why the universe hates her. He's home early. Or maybe she's just lost track of time. It doesn't matter, really, because he's here regardless and looking at her like she has three heads. She shakes her _only_ head slowly, mouthing his name, and he crooks a brow at her, features shrouded in the lowlight of the hall lamp.

Her mouth feels dry. "I have to go," she says suddenly and hangs up before Blair has a chance to reply.

"Liz?" Soul asks.

Maka watches him slip out of his jacket. He's wearing short sleeves today, and his tattoos peek out and trail down his arms. The little quarter note with wings catches her eye. She remembers sitting by him when he picked it out, remembers the shy, eager way he'd smiled at her, dimples and all, and licks her lips. Before long, he's sliding his belt off and groaning in relief, as if it's too much of a strain for him to wait until he's in his own room to start stripping, and Maka adds Soul to the list of people she hates for making everything so weird.

"Blair," she says.

"Ah, explains it," he says, yawning. "Who did she want you to fuck?"

Fuck it. "You."

"Partaking in some incest, Maka?"

Soul rockets to the top of her shitlist for being a wisecracking asshole with a cute smile and fuck me eyes. She'd been wrong in blaming Liz for all of this - Soul Evans is the real culprit, and he laughs when she balks and tosses the remote at him.

.

They finish painting the living room together on a Thursday afternoon.

Soul cracks the window open and rolls up his sleeves. She dresses in one of his old, raggedy band shirts and a pair of cutoff shorts and the two of them get to work. Painting is almost therapeutic. It's a project she can throw herself into, an easy distraction, something that keeps her from sneaking peeks at the way Soul's arms look when he stretches to his full height. The breeze keeps blowing the curtains askew and they flutter gently in the empty space, flittery and delicate in the quiet of the daylight. She's half tempted to tie them off or maybe take them down, just to avoid getting yellow paint on Gram's old curtains, but before she has the chance to do it, Soul's dusting his paintbrush down her nose.

Maka nearly goes cross eyed trying to inspect the damage. She gasps, shrieks, and drops her own paintbrush to flail and grab Soul's collar. He chortles, grinning infuriatingly, so familiarly, and she sputters in response.

"Got something on your face there, Maka," he says smugly.

She tightens her grasp on his shirt and gives a little tug. "Why you-"

He grins wider. "Aw, come on. Yellow's a good color on you!"

She wants to fight back, wants to dot his nose with paint too and cover his freckles with muted yellow and see how he likes it, but her paintbrush is too far away and if she ducks down, he'll escape. Instead, she hops on her toes and smooshes her nose to his neck, taking care to draw deliberate lines down the column of his throat. Soul grunts and squirms, hands molding to her hips out of instinct - or maybe in an attempt to keep them both standing, but he misjudges, and they tumble to the floor together.

The sound of his groan doesn't rumble through her bones like she thought it might. There's nothing sexy about laying on top of Soul, and the revelation is fluttering relief in the pit of her stomach. It feels normal, like tying her shoes, as she wiggles her way onto her elbows and stares down at him. Her pigtails hang low and feather over his jaw, his cheeks.

He grimaces. "Tickles."

"Oops."

"You're not as light as you used to be, you know," Soul grunts.

Maka dips her finger into the wet paint congealing on the inside of the lid and deliberately draws wings on his cheek. His hands move from her hips to her waist, the small of her back, as he holds her steady. Soul doesn't bother trying to get her to stop, just frowns and lets it happen, all the while aiding her in remaining upright.

She dots the center of the wings and hums. "A butterfly."

"Is it a badass butterfly?" he asks dryly.

"A pretty flowery butterfly."

"I've been blessed," Soul says then, deadpan.

He's almost pretty in this light. _Almost._ His features have never been particularly dainty, between his sharp teeth and dark eyes, but his lashes are long and soft and his nose elegant. He's an Evans, after all, and it's times like this that it's hard to forget he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He's the oddest mix of elegant and rough, magnificent cheekbones and sleepy eyes, clean eyebrows and scruffy jawline. Of course, she thinks the crudely drawn butterfly drying on his cheek might have something to do with his diminished beauty. But it's cute, still, and _he's_ cute, even as he frowns at her.

His thumb rubs slowly along the curve of her spine. "Do I get a turn, Picasso?"

"But I still have to do your other cheek!"

"Ugh, why?"

Maka smiles sweetly. "Butterfly needs a friend."

She tries to draw a spider, but the paint is thick and the legs morph together so it's more like a blob than anything else. Soul must be able to read her mistake on her face, because his grimace grows deeper, and when she giggles nervously and tries to roll off of him, he tightens his grasp on her waist and holds her down to him.

"Albarn," he says warningly.

" _Nooooo."_

"What did you do?"

"... So, you know how I bombed 3rd grade art class…"

His mouth sets in recognition. His frown is strained as he clearly tries to stop himself from outright grinning at her folly. "You always have been shit at finger painting."

He rolls them, hands still pressed to the curve of her waist, and before long he's looming over her, one palm pressed flat to the floor as he reaches the other towards the paint can. Resistance is futile, no matter her superior strength, but she still wiggles and whines anyway, pushing at his chest, as if it's _unfair_ that he gets to paint her, too. He grins dangerously, sharp teeth glinting, and if she didn't know him any better, she might be afraid.

But he's Soul, and when it comes down to it, he probably wouldn't hurt a fly. He dips his finger into the paint and fixes up her nose, then draws three lines stretching along her cheek. Whiskers.

She stares up at him. "I always knew you had a thing for cat girls."

Soul purses his lips and draws matching whiskers on her other cheek. "You caught me."

"Nyah, master."

He flinches. She suspects his perfectly straight line is now wonky. Maka grins playfully and Soul sours, hissing, "Never say that again, weirdo."

It's natural for them to be like this. Easy conversation, mutual teasing - this is their friendship, so comfortable and instinctual, and Maka wonders how she could have ever confused it for anything else. He's Soul, he who has folded her panties without so much as batting an eye at the lacier pairs; why would she want to change that for anything in the world? She likes being able to wrestle on the floor with him, likes using one another as a canvas, likes watching him smile lazily at her. There doesn't even need to be conversation. There's no other sound in the room but the clicking of the ceiling fan, no other motion but the shifting shadows of the fan blades overhead.

This is where she's meant to be. She doesn't have to be anything else but just _Maka_ when it comes down to it, down to them.

And maybe the reunion won't be so bad. And who is Liz to try and put a label on her relationship?

Soul might not be her brother. Soul might not even be _just_ her best friend, but that's no one's business but her own, and she thinks sacrificing this connection for something as abstract as a _what-if_ seems silly. She's perfectly happy being his best friend. She'll be his best friend for the rest of her life, if he'll permit it, even if someday he gets married and she doesn't, even if they stop living together.

"... Huh," he mumbles, dazed. He fixes her with a murky stare, eyes dark and confusing and warm, warm, warm. "You're kind of cute as a cat."

" _Nyah."_

"Never mind."

Maka throws her head back and laughs. Soul grunts and presses a nice, wet handprint onto her bare thigh. She loves him, really, and the _how_ doesn't matter.


	4. part four

**PART 4  
SOUL**

**.**

Wanting to kiss his best friend is as revolutionary as it is terrifying.

He's always been enamored by her colors, shades of ashen golds and bottomless emerald green. They draw him to her like a moth to a flame and he's helpless, alway helpless, when it comes to Maka. And if he's being honest, it's not the first time he's been tempted to lean over and taste her lips, to see if her mouth is as sweet and tart as her words are.

But it's certainly the first time the urge has been so _compelling_. And _distracting_ , god, is the way she bites her lip as she leans up onto her toes _distracting._

Saying he remembers every occurrence of this urge would be a lie. He does, however, remember fleeting moments when the desire was particularly strong, like snapshots in an otherwise hazy timeline of companionship. He knows when she laces her fingers between his a fluttering takes over his chest, but he's always reasoned it away as jitters from human contact. Most of all, though, he remembers prom, the way Maka had looked in her dress, pale pink shifting with every twirl of her hips, her head resting on his shoulder and the way his heart felt like it might burst. Prom always takes the cake. Prom was also years ago; he was seventeen and confused, hormonal at best, and Maka has always looked pretty with her hair down and heat in her cheeks.

He's tried so hard to lock that memory up tight. Sure, she'd been his date, but only because she hadn't cared to ask anyone else, and he hadn't been stupid enough to deny her anything.

Soul turns up his music and fidgets. He tries hard not to stare at the way her hips move and shift as she leans back on her heels. Watching her move around the kitchen should not be mesmerizing. Especially not while she's wearing his ugly shark slippers (her gift to him, three birthdays ago) and humming along to some Rihanna song, because he knows for a fact that she doesn't even know the lyrics.

There's a surge of affection. His silly, silly bookworm. _Clueless_ bookworm, so far removed when it comes to pop culture and music that she doesn't even know the difference between the Spice Girls and Destiny's Child.

And it's fucking bizarre because he's _known this girl forever_. Maka is so far engraved in his history that it's hard to separate the person he was before her to now. As far back as he can remember, she's been there, holding his hand or ordering food for him or punching his bullies, landing herself in detention at the tender age of 9 for him. By all means, she should be _just a sister_ to him. He's a brother to her, after all. When she looks at him, she doesn't feel the latent heat, the confusing tangle of attraction that he does when the shoe's on the other foot. He can never look away.

It's a problem.

His music can't drown out the length of her legs. He hates himself a little bit for staring, for admiring the way they seem to go on forever, boundless strength. There's something alluring about thighs that could probably crush a man's head.

It's a big, _big_ problem.

The music's not helping anyway, so he rips his headphones out and shoves the mp3 player across the table. Maka looks over from putting the dishes away, brows knit, as she asks, "What's up?"

"Nothing," he grunts.

"You sure?"

Positive. "Hungry," he says instead.

Maka leans back and presses her hands against the counter. When she's standing like that, he can appreciate the strength in her arms, the shape of her shoulders (bare, bare shoulders - god bless and god _damn_ tank tops) and the pretty rise of her collarbone. All things he's noticed before, of course, but never allowed himself to bask in the beauty of. It somehow feels even more inappropriate now, knowing for sure that she doesn't feel the same way back, that she'll never feel the same way.

He's her brother. And he should be thrilled, because all he's ever wanted in life was to be with her, to belong to her in a way - _any_ way, really, and this is almost as good as it gets. She gives him a home, a purpose, and family is so sacred and scarce for her. Maka is an only child. Her parents are divorced. Her father's a no-good womanizer and who knows where her mother's at - to be given the title of brother is an honor.

Soul will just have to learn to be happy with what's offered. It's more than anyone else has ever given him before. He's not _unhappy_ with what she's given him.

_Selfish, selfish boy._

Maka hums in thought. She taps the noses of the twin shark slippers together in contemplation. "We could order takeout?" she offers.

"I want something greasy."

"Burgers?"

He forces a grin. "And cheese fries?"

"Oh, I suppose," she sighs heavily, as if this is painful to decide - he knows for a fact the little sneak will be picking off his plate before the night is over. "We could break out the leftover wine, too."

"Only if you promise not to get wasted, you wine-o."

Maka sticks her tongue out at him. His stomach rumbles. It's so damn _pink,_ like a forbidden fruit, and _god,_ does he hate himself for wanting her.

.

He's not sure why he thought drinking would fix his little problem. It doesn't. It does the exact opposite. His little problem is no longer little.

It's big. And quite hard. What was dormant attraction has evolved into disgustingly poignant _arousal_. He's horny. There's no pretty way to put it. And Maka's clueless as always, as she nibbles on his fries and further burrows her way against his side, face pressed into his shoulder as she blinks sleepily at the television. Soul thanks God and also Jesus for the old blanket her father knitted her years ago for existing and being in reaching distance of their old shitty couch to do the civic duty of hiding the party in his pants. He plops it onto his lap and hopes for the best.

Wine makes Maka so sleepy. It's adorable. _And it should not be making him hard._

He sneaks away when she finally nods off. He tucks the lap blanket beneath her head to cushion her neck and tiptoes his way down the hallway, always careful of that one squeaky floorboard by Maka's door.

There's two ways this can go. He can always slip into the bathroom and crank the shower temperature down and try to kill it. A _brother_ would take an ice-cold shower and will away inappropriate attraction to pseudo sisters. It would be the right thing to do. The chaste, respectable thing, because the last thing he needs to wind down is the allowance to touch himself to thoughts of his best friend.

On the other hand, he could escape to his bedroom and break out the lotion, give in the carnal desires and quite literally beat one out. It's probably the less honorable choice, all things considered. Is it alright to want her when she clearly doesn't want him in return? Would there be repercussions to letting his guard down, just this once, and allowing himself to lust for her? No, lust doesn't feel right - it's different than that, something a little more - but still probably inappropriate and not what Maka ordered.

The wine makes the decision feel profound. A fork in the road. No matter what he picks, things will never be the same. And yet, what is _just_ one time? He grinds the heel of his hand against his lap and the relief is as astounding as it is frustrating. His dick perks up like an alerted dog at the thought of her, annoyingly so, and he only stops when he hears her sigh sleepily and shift down the hall.

He's not in the mood to hate himself any more than he already does. Soul veers into the bathroom, cranks the temperature to approximately freezing and lets the water cleanse him of his impurities.

.

"I'm telling you," Blake says, clapping his hand on Soul's shoulder. "You've just gotta go for it. Lay one on her and let the magic happen."

Soul rolls his neck and sits his ass down on Jackie's amp. He watches as Blake leaps spectacularly over Kim's guitar case and continues to pack up his drum kit, cymbals clattering noisily as he not-so-gently shoves them away. Packing up is never a quiet process with their drummer around, but somehow it always manages to take Soul by surprise, and he flinches, shoulders bunching up in the process.

"I, uh," Soul starts, "really don't think kissing her out of nowhere is going to solve anything. It might just be a false alarm anyway."

"Bro, you sound like a chick."

"That doesn't make sense."

"You're so… feelsy!" Blake exclaims, gesturing wildly with his hands. Hands that _should_ be busy packing up his massive drum set. "Like a chick. With that attitude, I bet you've never even kissed a girl."

Perhaps the silence is a bad decision. When Soul doesn't answer, Blake looks up from his snare with wide, wild eyes.

"Bro."

"I've kissed a girl!" Soul exclaims before releasing he's shouting. _Fuck._ The whole conversation feels so middle schoolish, and the way Jackie and Kim look on in interested, judgemental silence unnerves him that much more. "Just… not in a while."

"Was it Maka?"

Soul snorts moodily. "Fuck no."

"Was it your _mother?_ "

"Star."

"Knew it. You, my friend, need to get laid," Blake says sagely. When he jumps up and rounds him like a hawk might his prey, Soul wonders how he managed to pack up the kit so quickly without notice. "Luckily enough, there's prime pickings out there. And everybody likes a pianist. Get out there and work your stuff!"

Soul glances out at the ocean of bar goers with disdain. "I'd rather not."

"Gotta. You wanna keep moping around like a kicked puppy because Maka doesn't want to let you play peekaboo?"

"... No."

"Then it's time to get yourself out there! It'll help you settle your mind. If you're thinking about her tiny tits while you're feeling up some other chick's bazongas, you'll know it's love."

_This,_ Soul thinks dryly, as he's shoved up and into the blunt of the crowd, is why Blake is always, _always_ single. Love goes a little deeper than the size of a woman's chest - the shape and form don't mean a damn thing to him, not really. There's hundreds of girls bouncing around, cradling their beers as Blake leads him by, but not one of them catches his eye. Maybe he's sick or something. Maybe Maka's ruined him forever.

Blake decides, like the know-it-all punk he is, that he knows exactly what Soul's type is. Soul might argue if he was sure himself, but he's still thinking about how much he'd rather be at home because he _knows_ Maka's waiting up even though he's told her a dozen times not to. He's a little disturbed that he doesn't even know his own type. He's a lot more disturbed that he doesn't know what that means. If he's not interested in men (and boy, is he _not_ ) and he's seemingly indifferent when it comes to women (sans Maka), what does that _mean?_

Finally, his drummer decides on a girl. She's tall (or taller than Maka, who seems to be his base for everything nowadays) and pretty, he supposes, with a short pixie cut and black dyed hair. Soul notices and appreciates her tattooes, of course, and uses it as an introduction, because everything else seems fake and awkward and her ink really is kind of rad (roses and thorns stitching up her arms and stretching as far as her clavicle).

She crooks a smile and offers a hand. "Thanks. Yours are pretty cool too. Is that a piano?"

Fuck him. "Uh," he says nervously, checking over his shoulder to reaffirm that _yes,_ Blake has ditched and he's all on his own. "Yeah."

"On the inside of your wrist? Didn't that hurt?"

He smiles wistfully and shakes her hand. "Stung like a bitch."

"I bet." Nameless bar patron squeezes his hand and twists to better admire the ink. Her hands are rough and he can feel the callouses dotting her fingers. "I'm Chloe. Nice to meet you."

He finds himself grunting, "Soul," awkwardly. "You play anything?"

"Bass."

Thought so. Blake sure knows how to pick them - he'd managed to scout out a fellow musician in the crowd. Then again, Soul doubts finding a fellow performer in a bar with live music is much of a challenge at all. More likely than anything else, he zeroed in on the size of her tits and decided yes, this was the one for Soul-of-the-long-pianist-fingers. Of course, she's wearing a strapless top and of course, _of course,_ she's stacked.

Blake is really kind of basic. Soul snorts at the thought.

"What's so funny?" Chloe asks.

Soul nudges his head. "My drummer. He beat feet out of here pretty fast."

"Hm," she hums, shifting her weight, taking another sip and emptying her drink. "Some wingman."

Fuck fuck _fuck_. The wise thing would be to offer to buy her another beer, should he actually stick to Blake's advice, and chat her up some, but the whole thing feels a little wrong. He's not this guy. He doesn't chat up random women, doesn't buy anyone drinks but himself and maybe Maka, if she'll let him. And yet, then again, maybe that's the point - is it right to be thinking about his so-called _sister figure_ while talking to another woman?

Maybe there _is_ something wrong with him. Soul clears his throat. "Let me buy you another drink?"

Chloe smiles slowly and nods. "Only if you tell me about yourself."

If she was Maka, he wouldn't have to. But she's not Maka, and that's the point. She couldn't look less like her. This girl is new, knows nothing about him and doesn't excite him in the slightest - at least, not in the way she should. There's lingering anxiety, of course, and a smorgasbord of insecurities that whisper in between the cracks, but Soul knocks his own drink back to combat it and squeezes the glass in his hand.

_For Maka,_ he thinks. For Maka and the sanctity of their friendship, he'll do whatever it takes to get over her.

One drink becomes two and then three. Conversation is easier once he's got the lull of alcohol blanketing him. Chloe is laid back and _chill_ , what he wants to be, and he lets her lead him into a corner to dance - not because he's drawn to her, but because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to do. Without Blake or Maka to lead him he's lost, and she seems as good a candidate as any to take the reigns.

He also lets her kiss him. It's more an accident than anything else, really, but she presses him against the cool brick of the building and introduces tongue before he's made heads or tails of the situation. He feels nothing like he's lead to believe he should. The kiss is warm and wet and messy and he thinks of green eyes the entire time, even as her mouth sinks to press against his neck and her hands tug his belt loops.

It's a problem.

.

Like clockwork, he finds Maka still awake when he stumbles in.

"Oh my goodness, Soul," she breathes, dropping her novel aside to rush across the kitchen and steady him with her hands. "What the hell? You didn't drive home, did you?"

"Not stupid," he grunts, then giggles when she flushes pink. "You look like Kirby. All soft 'n shit."

"I- _shut up!_ " she whisper-shouts. "You reek of beer. How much did you spill on yourself-?"

Can she tell his lips are swollen? That just an hour ago, there'd been another girl pressing herself against him, tasting his neck and sliding her hands places Maka's have never been? Something like guilt sets low in his stomach, much different than the arousal he'd felt only a night before. The booze makes him drowsy and slow to react as she straightens his collar, but he can feel the wildfire taking its course through his chest and up the back of his neck. Everything feels goopy, as if the world around him is thick like syrup.

Maka slides her hands along his jaw and sighs. "C'mon, let's get you ready for bed."

Sleep sounds wonderful. He says it aloud, too, and sluggishly watches the way she tries to pinch back her smile. Such a cute sister he has. He wonders what it would be like if she pinned him against the bathroom wall and kissed his neck instead.

He's going to Hell.

He manages to keep his dumb leaky mouth shut as she tugs him into the bathroom. The fluorescent light hurts and he vocalizes his disdain, pressing his hands over his eyes and moaning lowly at the sudden change in brightness. Being tall has its merits, but standing eye-level with the bathroom lamp is not one of them. There are sunspots in his vision, specks of light and color intruding upon the blessed darkness.

"Hands down," Maka coaxes. When he doesn't obey, she takes matters into her own hands and grips his wrists. "Come on. Easy boy."

"It's briiiight," he whines.

"All the better to see you with, my dear," she says. "God, what's gotten into you? You never get this drunk. You never drink alone, either. Where's Blake?"

No good deserter. "Uhhhh."

She shakes her head and sighs. "Never mind."

The face cloth she summons is wet and freezing and shocks some alertness back into him. The whole thing seems so backwards. Only days before, he'd been the one tending to her mess, rinsing her hair in the sink, allowing himself to run his fingers through tangled layers of burnt gold. It seems so long ago, though. Like another life, a simpler time, when Soul didn't have an inappropriate crush on his best friend slash roommate and didn't have to swap spit with a stranger in order to try and force himself into normality.

He can still taste her drink on his lips. Soul wets them with his tongue and watches Maka's brows furrow. She scrubs over his mouth first, then takes great care in cleansing his face. He's basically a toddler at his big sister's mercy.

Soul snorts at the thought. Then giggles. Then stops giggling because _it's not cool_ and Maka's making a weird face.

The water might be cold but her hands feel really good. Safe. Without much thought, he lets his eyes close and leans into her open palm, the one steadying his jaw as she brushes the cloth down his neck.

Thinking is really hard right now.

Maka makes a soft gasping sound and then sucks in a breath. Sluggishly, Soul peeks at her through the cracks of his lashes. "Maka?"

Her brows furrow, and then she looks up at him, eyes big and vulnerable as she blurts, "Lipstick?"

"I… uhh?"

Her rapid blinking plummets his heart into his stomach. Little lip trembles, the flaring of her nose, watery eyes - and then she's looking pointedly at his neck, her breath coursing through her like tumultuous waves as she scrubs and scrubs and _thinking is an olympic fucking sport._ He can't process anything but the booze and the color of her eyes.

The sick feeling in his stomach has nothing to do with the alcohol in his system or the cheese fries he inhaled hours ago. Her hand slips from his jaw like fallen grace and she cups his shoulder instead, that little bit less intimate, and something inside him tightens, _tightens,_ thick and complicated and scared. He should not feel guilty. Technically speaking, he hasn't done anything wrong. He's not Maka's boyfriend. _He is not Maka's boyfriend_ and did not cheat on her, but _goddamn_ does it feel like it.

His brain is stupid and his mouth is leaky. "I thought this's what you wanted," he blurts.

Her expression pinches noticeably, even under his haze. "What?"

"'M your brother," he slurs. "An' I… Blake said…"

" _Blake_ doesn't know what I want."

He clenches the sink at his right in order not to wobble like a fool. The room's spinning, but that's fine, whatever - he wants to collapse and take a nap on her thighs and shake her and _bite her_ all at once. "Do you? I just wanna make you happy," he says miserably. He thinks of whatshername's lips on his neck, her hands in his pockets. "Just want to make you happy."

Maka can't stop blinking. It's distracting. "I _am_ happy."

"Wanna take you to that- that dumb reunion and… spin you around. Like a princess."

" _Okay._ Okay."

"Do brothers do that?"

She sniffles and moves her hand to rub under her nose. Her eyes look like wet lawns or other poetic _somethings_ his drunk brain can't put together. "Yeah," she mumbles. "They do that. And they kiss other girls. That's… that's okay too."

But she's still crying. He reaches to wipe them away but fumbles and misses and kind of just places his hand on her face instead. Her lashes tickle the crook of his palm. Maka breathes through her nose and it soaks through his skin like sunlight. He feels her smile, however small, as she works on rubbing the leftover lipstick residue from his skin.

"Kissing is gross," he mumbles around his useless tongue and sore lips.

She stares at him. Fuck, her eyes are pretty.

Soul swallows thickly. "t's like… wet. 'Nd messy."

"So is sex."

"I di'n't…"

Maka brushes his hair from his face and worries her lower lip. He can't look away, can't stifle the urge to wipe her damp eyes. Only he doesn't get very far; before he has the chance, she's ducking away, expression closed, lips pursed. The terrycloth hits the sink with a wet _plop._ Before Soul really has time to further overanalyze this recent chain of events, Maka's tossing a towel at his face and sniffling, presumably steadying herself. He can't understand why. Isn't this what she wanted? Isn't this what she needed?

"Maka?"

The towel falls from his face and she's watching him sadly. Soul feels like a child.

Her voice doesn't waver. "You better drink some water before you go to bed or else you'll be hungover."

"... Kay."

_Weird._ She's being so weird. Who is this person and what has she done with Maka? This can't be the same girl who waved goodbye and left warm muffins out for him this morning. It's like he's being punished, the way she dangles her affection so achingly close just to snatch it away. It gives him whiplash.

With all of the grace of a rhino, he stumbles forward and braces himself on the doorframe. He looms over her, fingers curling around creaking wood and chipped paint. Maka is fearless but not reckless, for once in her life, and doesn't meet his eyes.

She mumbles instead. "You should get to bed. I'll grab you a glass of water."

"Not tired," he lies.

He wants to search her expression for answers. He wants to know what it's like to kiss her and melt into her and taste her very being. He wants to know _so much_ and yet he's scared, still, because these wants are toxic and for the life of him, he can't figure out why she's so sad. He's not her lover, no matter what he wants, and even as the ache sinks in bone deep Soul knows he'd never push her that far, never past her comfort zone.

Maka exhales and gives his shirt a light tug. She doesn't need to. He'd follow her to the ends of the Earth if she asked, no matter the consequence, and she damn well knows it. He bleeds his loyalty through every fucking pore.

.

The hangover isn't even the worst part.

It's the distance. They haven't been separated from each other for more than a few hours since freshman year of high school, and _that_ was only because of scheduling issues and Maka's excessive schedule and _his_ piano lessons. Even then, they'd made time for each other, be it through texting or Facetime or other means of communication. He still found a way to wish her a good night. She still found a way to counteract the monsters hiding in his closet at 3 AM.

He wants to tell her things and doesn't know how to word them. How do you tell your best friend of forever that you think you might be hopelessly in love with them? How can he properly convey all of the years of admiration and devotion that even make this thought possible? He wants only the best for her. Rationally, that probably means he doesn't want her to want him.

And yet he does. So badly, in a selfish, needy sort of way. He wants to fall to his knees and pay homage to the greatness that she is. He wants to thank her for putting up with him for so long. More than anything else, he really does want her to be _happy_ and safe and successful. And hell, maybe that's not with him. Maybe he's wrong in wanting to kiss her.

_God,_ does he want to kiss her. It's such a fever dream, such a long shot, but it haunts him every time he closes his eyes, every time she sweeps her hair over her shoulder and he gets a whiff of muted vanilla and honey.

None of this matters, though, because now she won't look at him. Ten minutes ago, when she'd dropped off his meds and a bottle of water, she'd barely even glanced in his direction before practically sprinting out of the door.

His hangover screams and kicks and lands a firm punch to his noggin and it's not even the worst pain he's felt today. He would rather take anything over this heartache. When he's so emotionally detached from her, he can't even entertain these inappropriate thoughts of her legs and her skin. The dissonance is astounding, deafening, and Soul admits defeat before stumbling face-first back into bed before he's even made it halfway across his room.

He's hurt her. He's _hurt her_ and he doesn't even know _how._

When her father was caught cheating on her mother, Maka had locked men out of her life almost completely. He'd been omitted from her rule, somehow, miraculously. It was the sickest form of validation and he knew, even then, that he'd been terrible for being glad she took refuge in his arms but he couldn't help it. For once he'd felt needed, like he played an active part in a friendship and he'd been drunk off the mutual understanding. Maka understood loneliness like he did and he'd be damned if he ever let anyone hurt her like that again.

And now here he is - only he can't quite piece together how it happened.

She's not attracted to him, so he can cross that big hopeful one off the list. The only answer to that issue is, of course, fierce repression, which he thinks he can handle; he's been choking back the negative things floating around his brain for fucking years, thank you very much, he can handle keeping his hands off of her.

Soul groans and burrows beneath his blankets. Maybe, he thinks dejectedly, she's just scared.

It sort of makes sense. Maka's father remarried a younger woman after months of sleeping around as a free man. Maka's mother hasn't written her (or even called her) in _years_. He might wear the title of Brother Figure like one might wear the title of Village Fool, but that doesn't stop him from still being an important figure in her life. If he's a constant, no matter how strange, and she (wrongly assumes) he's going to run off with some manic pixie dream girl - well, sure, he can see how that might be worrying, albeit irrational.

But irrational fears don't make them any less daunting. He can attest to that.

He's the fucking worst. Blake is a jackass. Chloe's hot but doesn't mean anything to him (and she's not even that hot, really, he hadn't even been able to _get it up_ with her hands practically in his pants). He hates Kid and Liz for being happy and married and _together_ and everything that's pushing Maka further away.

Most of all, though, he hates himself for letting it happen and listening to Blake's advice.

He can do nothing more but whine like a baby and hope Maka takes pity on him. Moving is physically and mentally taxing. Birds are screaming demons. The sun knows he's done wrong and is intent on melting his eyes out of his sockets.

Like a merciful goddess, she peeks in through the crack of his door and asks, "What's wrong?"

"C'mere."

She hesitates. "Soul…"

He pokes his head out of his crudely-crafted blanket burrito to prove he's serious. Daylight feels like hellfire and a thousand tap dancers performing a show atop his brain.

Maka actually giggles at his grimace. "Drink too much?"

"Don't wanna talk about it," he grunts. "C'mere?"

"Have you even taken your meds yet?"

Oh, right, that's a thing. He doesn't have it in him to crack a joke or work a smile. "No."

Even when she's hurt, she still puts others' wellbeing first. It might be her fatal flaw and he might be the worst kind of person for exploiting it. Still, though, he doesn't budge as she pads her way over, still dressed in her oversized pajamas and his shark slippers. "Soul, you should really-"

"I love you like a sister too."

Maka blinks, astounded. "I- what?"

"That's what you wanted, right? A family?" he says. "It's right here. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

She worries her lower lip. Fiddles with her pigtail. Nervous habits. He knows them all. He's known her for too long and _she realizes it,_ so she forgets the game and meets his eye finally. "You can kiss who you want, Soul. I don't own you."

But she does. Maka owns his entire heart. He laughs humorlessly, ruggedly. "She was a shitty kisser."

"Soul!"

"Or maybe I was. I don't know. I was _really_ drunk. Probably drooled on her or something."

It doesn't make her laugh the way he thought it might, but she manages to smile for him anyway and it's enough to get by. Soul might listen to the nagging voice in the back of his head (the one who sounds too much like Wes) but the hangover and _tap dancers_ are too loud to make anything out. Her half-hearted smile will have to do for now.

It's more than her crying. It's _so much more_ than her lost eyes and sad sighs.

She plucks the cup of pills from his bedside table and waves it in front of him. "Take them, Soul."

Just to try and replace some sort of normality between them, he makes a big show of trying to sit up. He complains until she gives in and yanks him up to sit and shoves the bottle of water into hands. _This_ is habit. This is how they function and banter and live, and he can do this. He'll do anything if it means making her smile.

"Tastes like ass," he says, pouting.

"That's because you're not supposed to _chew_ them, bonehead."

She's right. Maka's always right. "Whatever," he grunts instead, all for show.

Wanting to kiss his best friend is as revolutionary as it is terrifying, and he'll shut it down time and time again if it keeps her holding his hand. Sitting on the cusp of something that will change them so fundamentally is exhausting, both emotionally and mentally, and his internal waffling won't change who Maka is - just a girl with a floozy father and wayward mother, and if she needs a family to hold steadfast, that's just who he's gotta be.

Soul slithers back beneath his blankets, momentarily placated. "I meant it, you know."

"Hmm?"

"You're my family," he mumbles into his pillows. He catches her gaze and hides further in his bedding, unreasonably shy. "Mean more to me than any other dumb girl."

She's quiet for a moment, and then, "You, too."

"Reunion's in a few days."

"A week."

"Mmm," he hums sluggishly.

Her hand combs through his hair. He could purr. Before he has the chance, she tugs his blankets up to his ears and sighs heavily, like the motion is physically taxing on her. "Go to sleep, Soul."

He is but her faithful servant.


	5. part five

**PART 5  
MAKA**

.

Tsubaki is even lovelier than Maka remembers.

In her teen years, Tsubaki had been undeniably lovely. What with her soft, kind blue eyes and long, silky hair, she was a sight to behold, even at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. In her early twenties, though, she is a vision. So much so that Liz chokes on her coffee as Tsubaki hurries over, throwing her willowy arms around Maka and hugging her to her chest.

"Maka!" she gasps, eyes misty, as Liz attempts to blot the coffee stain out of her white blouse. "It's been so long! Oh, look at you, your hair has gotten so long!"

Laughing, she swats away Tsubaki's hands from her cheeks and shrugs. "I guess I'm due for a cut. Speak for yourself, though! Your hair is gone!"

Tsu smiles, genuine and tender as always, and pulls Maka in again to press a quick, almost maternal kiss to her forehead. Her heart swells, unable to contain the surge of affection for her friend, the closest thing she'd had to a mother in her teen years, sans her aunt Marie. "I donated it. It's just hair, after all. It grows back. Someone else needs it more than I do."

Maka takes a step back to better appreciate the girl before her. Her shorter hair will take some getting used to, certainly - in their youth, Tsubaki's defining physical characteristic was her long, fluttering ponytail - but it's flattering. Shoulder-length haired Tsubaki _glows,_ beaming so widely her face practically splits, dimples poking darling little dents into the corners of her smile. The cut is cute, and she seems so comfortable in her own skin, so happy that Maka can't help but tug her back into another giggly, excited hug, bouncing on her feet all the while.

"Oh!" Tsu says, leaning back and peeking over the top of Maka's head, "hello, sorry, this must be so awkward for you-"

Liz waves her off and tosses her napkin into a nearby trashcan. "No, it's fine. Hey, I'm Liz."

"She's Kid's wife," Maka clarifies.

The giddy preteen-esque glow has dulled, but Tsubaki is no less welcoming, politely excusing herself out of Maka's arms to extend a hand to the blonde. "Tsubaki Nakatsukasa, it's lovely to meet you," she says, punctuating with a curtsy, her floral-printed swishing along her knees. "I've heard so much about you from your husband! And from Maka, of course."

"Good things, I hope," Liz says wryly, taking her hand.

"Of course! You're just as lovely as Kid told me you were."

That gets Liz to blush. Maka watches, grinning, more than a little bit playfully, because earning a red-faced Elizabeth _Mortimer_ is no easy feat. Liz splutters for a moment, collecting herself, managing a " _thanks,"_ before sending Maka a dirty look. _This means war,_ it seems to say, and Maka knows that without a doubt that Liz will have her revenge before the day is over.

Tsubaki blinks. "Where's Soul?"

Swallowing back the sudden lump in her throat, Maka says, "Sleeping."

Liz rolls her eyes before taking another sip of her coffee. "Amateur."

"Oh, no, that's fine!" Tsubaki gasps, smoothing town her scarf. Never one to interrupt or demand attention, she says, "Let him rest. I'll be here all week, no worries."

"We could get lunch," Maka suggests. "Girls only. No boys allowed."

"Kid's already on his way over with the car," Liz says sleepily, wiping the lipstick stain from the rim of her Deathbucks cup. "I texted him. Sorry. Oversight on my part."

"Kid can come," Maka says without thinking. "He's fine."

It might go over Liz's head - she's awake, sure, but not without assistance from a good dose of caffeine and pumpkin spice - but Tsubaki clues in quickly, watching Maka with gentle, observant blue eyes. Maka digs her nails into the fabric of her skirt, willing away any thoughts of her roommate and those cherry-red stains she'd found scattered along his neck like constellations. That hard-to-breathe feeling is back, clotting her throat, and Maka exhales shakily through her nose. Temper, temper.

It's ladies day out. Featuring Kid. And no Soul.

She's ridiculous. He hasn't even done anything wrong. He's her brother, practically; he's her _family_ and if he wants to mess around with some girl and let her smear her lipstick all over him like a brand, well, it's none of Maka's business. She's in no position to hold it against him.

Soul isn't her boyfriend. He _isn't._ And she isn't his girlfriend, isn't his wife, isn't his _lover_ or anything messy like that. They _work_ because they just _are,_ just SoulandMaka and MakaandSoul, and if she blows this over something silly like jealousy she'll never be able to live with herself. If there's one person in this world she trusts unconditionally, it's Soul, her rock. The thought that Soul might do something to purposefully hurt her is laughable. He's rough around the edges, sure, but not downright malicious, never cruel.

Maka wonders what it would be like to let _him_ stain _her_ neck like a brand. She cuts the thought short and refocuses, waving Tsubaki's concerned gaze away with a crook of her lips and a (hopefully) reassuring nod.

"Are you sure?" Liz asks.

"Positive. Kid won't try to order ice cream for dessert despite his allergies anyway."

" _Intolerance,_ " Liz quotes, rolling her eyes. "He's lactose _intolerant,_ remember?"

As if she could ever forget. He has his own carton of soy milk in _their_ fridge and a bottle of Lactaid sitting next to her daily vitamins.

.

He still has bedhead and no shirt on when they get back from lunch.

"Get a haircut, you filthy hipster," Liz greets effortlessly, like routine, kicking the door shut behind her.

Soul grunts at her and leans back against the kitchen counter, looking delightfully mussed, sweatpants riding low on those hips of his. His hipbones peek above his waistband like forbidden fruit and Maka beelines for the fridge, disturbed at her own lack of control. She mutters, mostly to herself (but also Soul, because he's tactless and stupid and cute) as she rearranges the contents of their refrigerator to make space for what's left of their lunch.

"Hey, Tsu," he says groggily, voice still so rough and textured with sleep. "How was your trip?"

"Fine," Tsubaki says, setting her leftovers down to pull him into a chaste hug. Maka watches them from the corner of her eye, not at all jealous, of course, at the way Tsubaki effortlessly reaches around Soul's shoulders, manages to kiss his cheeks, too, without letting herself get lost in the connotations. "You look good!"

Maka barks out a laugh. "He eats terribly."

He pouts. "Maka's a tyrant."

"They haven't changed, you see," Kid chimes in from behind, setting his wife's purse down on the counter with great care. It earns a well-meaning giggle from Tsubaki and a middle finger from Soul.

"He really does eat badly," Maka insists, shifting to shut the fridge door behind her. "Ask him about what he had for dinner last night. Go ahead."

" _Maka._ "

Amused, and clearly biting back a grin, Tsubaki asks, "What?"

Soul scratches his collarbone irritably. "Food."

"Alfredo. _My_ leftover alfredo," Maka says, ruthlessly. His scratching gets harder as his expression grows more sullen. "And guess who spent the rest of the night by the toilet?"

"Didn't you guys just eat?" he whines.

Their banter is routine, and it brings a sort of rewarding comfort to her. They might be putting on a show for their guests, but it's the most _normal_ she's felt around Soul in days, since that afternoon spent painting their living room. Part of her wants to paint her face again, smear crooked whiskers on her face and play the part of childhood best friend again, effortlessly, and let things return to normal. Looking at Soul and feeling a tight tangle encase her lungs like a snake's coil isn't natural. The freckles along his shoulders shouldn't draw so much attention. He shouldn't draw so much attention from her. He just _is_ , just Soul, just part of her home.

Her resolve should have made this simple. It _was_ simple, loving him as a person, as an entity in her life, without needing to put a name to it - but now something akin to jealousy crawls in her gut and threatens to tear through her at the sight of fading bites and purpling bruises along the column of his neck. That she's staring at, fuck, she's definitely staring at his neck like a parched animal.

Maka catches Tsubaki's tiny, knowing grin and blanches. "Oh," Tsu says, voice as carefully measured as always, three parts concern and one part mischievous, "we brought you back some fries, Soul. Here. I kept them separate, just for you."

"'Least somebody cares," Soul says, still pouting, still ridiculously distracting without a shirt. It's criminal. He's the worst and Maka takes personal offense at the way he peels open the styrofoam container and licks his lips.

_Compartmentalize. Don't let him get to you._ It's just _Soul._ She's held his hair while he kneeled at the porcelain throne more times than she can easily count. Lock it _down,_ Albarn.

"Go put some clothes on," she finds herself saying. "We have company."

"Ah, leave the eye candy," Liz says, laughing, as she drops down to sit on the couch. Soul pinks adorably and waffles where he stands, apparently unsure if Maka's request is merely a _suggestion_ or a command.

"I'm gonna, uh," he nudges his head over his shoulder. "Shower. 'Nd stuff. It's nice seeing you, Tsu."

"Soul," Tsubaki says warmly.

"We should be going too," Kid says, glancing at one watch-clad wrist before checking the other as well. "We still need to tidy the house before Patty arrives tonight."

Liz heaves a great sigh, as if the mere thought of moving (and cleaning) is strenuous. Maka can't even fault her for it, though - if prom committee was any evidence in high school, Kid goes hard when it comes to organization, and if Liz's current state of dress (low rise jeans, band shirt and bare-faced, sans a good coat of eyeliner) is any clue as to how helpful she'll be - well, Maka can see where the dread is coming from. At the same time, though, Liz peeks at him through sleepy, half-lidded eyes, still cradling her (third) cup of coffee so dearly, grunting as she pulls herself off of the couch, and Maka knows she's bound so deeply to her baby sister's happiness.

Even if Patty probably won't give a damn if the pantry is alphabetized or not.

"It's tidy," Liz whines.

"Liz."

" _Mostly_ tidy," she sighs, running her fingers through her long hair. "Maka, I'll text you later. We still on for dress shopping tomorrow after work?"

Maka hums, distracted, as Soul finally makes his way out of the kitchen and down the hallway. Her eyes are certainly not trained on him as she half-asses a wave in Liz's direction. That would be silly and desperate, two things Maka very much is not. When the bathroom door swings shut, hinge screeching, she finally turns back to face Tsubaki, who has settled neatly at the kitchen table, tediously unwinding her mile-long scarf.

"I can hang that up for you," Maka offers.

"Thank you," Tsubaki says gratefully. She nods her head in a respectful little bow. "Maka, is everything alright?"

Maka drums her fingers on the table to drown out the sound of the shower roaring to life. The apartment walls are so thin, and she purses her lips as Soul gives a sigh of relief in the other room. "Why wouldn't things be okay?"

Tsubaki shoots a telltale glance down the hall. "Well…"

She's so observant. Too observant for her own good, Maka thinks, the uncomfortable coil in her chest tightening. Maka wants to lash out, wants to shut it down and let it be known that there's nothing going on between her and her roommate, that she's sick of everyone assuming that they're secretly crushing on each other, that it's ridiculous to think a boy and a girl can't live together without messy things like attraction and romance getting in the way. But it's Tsubaki who's giving her such a concerned look - Tsubaki, who only sees the good in everyone, who chopped off her long hair and donated it to charity simply because it was the right thing to do - and Maka can't bring herself to bring out the big guns.

Instead, she deflates, defeated, and sinks to sit across the table from her. "I don't know," she answers honestly.

Stubborn, stubborn Maka Albarn giving in is something to not be taken lightly, and Tsubaki doesn't miss the opportunity to tuck her hands over Maka's. "What do you mean?"

There's a pause, a moment of silence, where Maka lets herself be comforted. In fear of him overhearing, she doesn't push forth until Soul's iPod buzzes to life and he's humming along to slow jazz .

"He's my best friend," Maka says, hushed, still, even through Soul sounding out the crashes of hi-hats. " _Just_ my best friend. But he's the most important person in the world to me."

Careful, always careful, Tsubaki pats the back of her friend's palm. " _Yes,_ " she says, not sounding even a little bit surprised. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, but…" Maka chews her lip. "... He came home late the other night."

"... Late?"

"With… lipstick on him. Drunk," Maka continues faintly. Putting it into words has her reeling back and reliving it, the damp facecloth heavy in her hand, the look on his face wary. He'd been so sad, standing there and letting her touch him so familiarly, in that way he'd only ever let her before, scrubbing the evidence away with her heart on her sleeve. There had been wildfires in his eyes and it still makes her burn. "And that's never happened before."

For what it's worth, Tsubaki takes a moment to collect her thoughts, too. It makes Maka feel marginally less bad about crying in his face over it. "Oh," she says simply. "I didn't realize that Soul has a girlfriend."

"He doesn't." Or she _doesn't think_ he does. He hadn't even remembered her name, not really, hadn't really remembered kissing her all that much. He'd just been so _out of it._ "I kind of freaked out at him. And now things are weird."

"Maka," Tsubaki begins gently, "he knows about your parents. I'm sure he understands."

"But we're not _dating!_ "

Her friend chews her lip. "No," she agrees, "but you're certainly close. You live together."

"I'm not in love with him," she says thickly, lip sucked beneath her teeth. "I know everyone thinks I am, but I'm not. I told him I'm not, you know. _In love with him_. He's like- he's my brother, or my family, or _something,_ and then he went out and came home drunk smelling like some girl's _perfume-_ "

Tsubaki's hands tighten over hers protectively. "Did it remind you of your dad?"

She prods so gently, poking little holes in Maka's suit of armor. How she'd forgotten Tsubaki's tender ways of interrogation is beyond her, but now here she is, sniffling again, face scrunched up, struggling to keep herself quiet, because even with the shower running and a wall between them, she knows Soul would detect the sound of her tears anywhere.

He's her big protector, after all. Even when she doesn't need him to be. He's been her big protector for as long as he possibly could, busied himself with the duty, and she'd never truly had the heart to tell him to back down because it made her feel wanted. And safe, in a weird, strange sort of way, that only makes her want to cry more. Maka Albarn is no damsel, never in distress, never out of her own control, not if she can help it.

Maybe that's what has her so freaked out. She can't control Soul's feelings. She can't control who he falls in love with, who he wants to be with forever. She can't force him to stay with her, can't expect him to be happy with a girl who can't separate her childhood trauma from her adult life.

"Yes," she admits finally. Sniffling, she continues on, whimpering, "But he wasn't- he wasn't _cheating,_ so I can't be angry with him. He can kiss other girls if he wants to. He's still taking me to the reunion, even though he didn't even want to go in the first place. I just..."

"What? You _what?_ " Tsubaki asks, only once Maka's safely trailed off and began scrubbing at her damp eyes.

"... I don't want to lose him, I guess," she mumbles, staring at the center of the table, unable to meet Tsubaki's eyes. Not the whole truth, but not a lie, either. There's more to it - things that she can't make out or quite understand herself, so lost in the tangle that makes sleeping hard at night and breathing difficult when Soul smiles at her. "But I can't keep him chained down? I mean, he needs to have a choice-"

"Does he have the choice?"

"I want him to!" But she's too stubborn, too clingy, too scared to loosen the reigns.

"Let's take the alcohol out of the equation, then," Tsubaki says, lifting her hands to cradle Maka's safely between them. There's a maternal warmth in her way, so gentle yet reassuring, and Maka cries harder, unable to help herself. "Has Soul ever acted like that while sober?"

"... _No._ "

"And did you talk to him about it while he was sober?"

"... I mean," Maka says, "he was hungover."

"That doesn't count. His head wasn't clear. And I'm sure you were still emotional over it, anyway," Tsubaki says, then brings her fingers to her lips and gently presses them to Maka's knuckles. "I think you should talk to him about it. I know he's never really been good at talking about his feelings, but you're not exactly innocent either. The longer you let this stew, the worse it's going to get, and if you keep avoiding him, he's going to think he did something wrong. And then _he's_ going to avoid _you._ "

"But…" Maka says, gloomily, "... what if he leaves?"

"He won't."

She wants to press on, wants to ask how she knows, how can she be sure - but then the shower's switching off and Maka rips her hands from Tsubaki's, scrubbing the dampness from her eyes almost instantaneously.

"Thank you," she mutters, as the bathroom door screeches open and Soul's heavy footsteps slump off toward his room.

Tsubaki only smiles sadly and waves a hand. "Of course."

.

Maka's never been very good at bowling.

In middle school, Soul had teased that it was because her arms were so skinny, as if the balls were too heavy for her twiggy limbs. Of course, the fact of the matter remained that Maka had twice the biceps he did, so that was bogus and they both knew it. Still, it got her blood burning all the same, and for years she'd refused to spend afternoons wearing borrowed shoes at the bowling alley with Soul, Kid and Tsubaki simply out of sheer force of will (and the state of her bruised pride, because she really was quite bad at keeping her ball out of the gutter).

But it's so hard to say no to Tsubaki. Especially after such an emotionally vulnerable heart to heart, Maka feels sort of indebted to her, so she lets her opinion be swayed. It doesn't stop her from slugging Soul in the arm when he grins and lets her know that he's going to win.

"In your dreams, Evans," she huffs, and stomping after Tsubaki as Soul rubs his sore arm.

He wheezes and follows after her. "Don't know why I thought you'd take it easy on me. You'd think I'd know better by now. Once an arm-wrestling champ, always an arm-wrestling champ."

"Hm," she hums. "Masochist."

He gives her a dark look that makes her head spin. Before she has the chance to dwell on it, a beefy arm lurches around her shoulder and then Blake's grinning right in her face. "Sup!"

Maka shoots him her own dark look, without even a hint of mystery. "Why."

Soul shrugs apologetically. "Blake likes to bowl. It was either this or clubbing, and I thought this would be a tamer scene for Tsu."

"Clubbing would have been fine! I'm fine with anything," Tsubaki chimes in.

Blake, as if only now realizing the fourth member of their group, looks up from hanging off of Maka's shoulders with a glint of star-struck awe in his eye. Maka realizes all too late that bringing a kind, beautiful woman anywhere near Soul's drummer is a recipe for disaster. Tsubaki might be an angel, all things considered, but surely she must have her limits. And they're about to be tested.

"Who," Blake says, voice cracking. "Who is this?"

Begrudgingly, Maka answers, "Our high school friend, Tsubaki."

"Pleasure to meet you," she says, extending a hand to him, and it's like Blake has finally seen the light of day. He straightens his shoulders, stands as tall as his body will possibly allow and takes her hand in his, shaking firmly.

Soul exhales slowly behind her and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

.

For the rest of the time, Maka and Soul have front-row seats to a comedy of errors.

It's possibly the worst romcom scenario she's ever seen. Their meet-cute hadn't been terrible, all things considered, but the moment Blake decided to try and impress Tsubaki by bowling with his eyes shut and took out the elderly woman's knees beside him (getting them kicked out of the bowling alley) had certainly put a damper on any potential for a good first impression.

Still, though, he hasn't given up, and Maka finds herself crammed between a wall and Soul at the nearby pizza parlor. His arms are so damn long, and his elbows bump hers every time he flips the page of the menu. Across from her, Tsubaki sits, hands tucked neatly into her lap as she's subjected to the long winded tale of how Blake single-handedly saved a kitten from a tree three years ago. It might not be so bad if he hadn't of broken out the wild hand motions and nearly tipped over Soul's drink.

"Bro," Blake mutters, squinting, "watch _out._ "

_Ridiculous._

Soul snorts and moves his cup into Maka's personal space instead. "Sorry."

Just for that, Maka steals a sip. He doesn't even move to stop her, just lets it happen, and Maka slurps down his soda nosily, releasing his straw with a noisy little _pop._

His brow twitches, just for a moment. "Better not have backwashed."

"Speak for yourself," she mumbles back, nudging his elbow with hers. "You left your boxers on the floor in the bathroom again, slob."

Soul leans in, breath hot in her ear. "Pest," he whispers back fondly, and the room must be about ten degrees warmer, because Maka just about breaks into a sweat. She shoves him back again, scowling for show, and he grins toothily, stirring his straw in his drink. "You steal my share of the food all the time."

If anything, Blake is a good distraction. With him around, Tsubaki doesn't even have time to pay attention to the way Maka blushes so fervently around her roommate. A blessing in disguise, certainly - though being in such close proximity to said roommate sort of negates any good deeds Blake has done for her. Sure, she got out of spending the whole night bowling, but at what cost? Soul's so close that she can smell his cologne, an expensive little number that reminds her nothing of her father, and Maka doesn't care to admit how much that heals her bruised heart.

"He's really going for it," Maka whispers, propping up her menu before her face. "I don't know if we should intervene or not."

"Blake's not a bad guy," Soul says back, just as quietly, "he's just… overzealous."

"He knocked out an old woman at a bowling alley."

Soul winces. "It was an accident."

"Tsubaki teaches _kindergarteners._ He can't be left around kids if he's going to start knocking people out while she's around!"

He chews his lip and flips the page again. "I see your point. But I've never seen him like this before. He's not usually this serious about girls. Usually he just… you know. Flirts a little and then tries to swallow their face. But he's actually talking to her."

Maka peeks over the top of her menu, considering, weighing her options. On one hand, she could slip out and return with Soul, get some sleep and try to figure out how to rope him into a talk the next morning. On the other, she could hang around and try to protect one of her oldest friends from a man that owns a tank that reads " _Suns Out, Guns Out"_. Either way, it seems like a lose/lose situation.

But Tsubaki's actually laughing at his jokes. It's the strangest thing. When Blake gives a particularly boisterous laugh and another exaggerated hand motion, Tsubaki giggles politely behind her hand and smiles with her eyes, brightness and all. Maka can't remember the last time she'd seen Tsubaki so genuinely amused.

It's sort of disturbing. She can do better. _Much_ better.

"If he lays one on her, you know I have to knock him out, right?"

Soul nearly chokes on his soda. "I-" he cackles, wiping at his face with his sleeve. " _Yeah_ , you knock his lights out, Maka. It would make my week."

She doesn't miss the fond way he smiles at her. She sort of wishes she did, if only to calm the thundering of her heart.

_I'm not in love with him._

He just has a laugh that reminds her of home and eyes that melt her bones. He has hands that're meant to be held and a soul as old as time itself. A crooked smile and _dimples_ , god, does he have cute dimples that sort of thaw her heart.

Soul holds her gaze effortlessly. He doesn't even need to try - she's glued to him, eyes wide, enamored, as he quirks that same old grin again, shy and tender, and nudges her shoulder again. It's so damn familiar that it breaks her heart and puts her back together all at once. The lump in her throat is thick, thick, and this time she can't swallow it down. She's encased, trapped, _drowning,_ and grasping at the surface feels so futile.

_I'm not in love with him._

Maka doesn't look at him again until after they've ordered and finished their pizza.

.

His hand is warm in hers.

There's something clawing at her chest and it's about to break free, whether she wants it to or not. Part of her wishes she'd asked Tsubaki to come back with them instead of letting her run off with Blake for midnight milkshakes. Another part of her, a bigger part of her, is just glad that there's nobody around but Soul.

It's always been him, after all. Since day one, it's been Soul by her side. It's been Soul brushing back her hair as she cried and Soul holding her diploma while she tore into Ox Ford's stupid face. How, she thinks, can she possibly not feel so torn up over him? How, when he's been such a constant in her life - her right hand man, her best friend, her shoulder to cry on, her _Soul._ Pseudo-brother, roommate, something _else._ There's never been anyone one else _but_ him. No one else could possibly be her _always._

She squeezes his hand in hers and braces herself for impact. "Soul?"

He glances over his shoulder at her. There are galaxies reflecting in his eyes, journeys she hasn't yet been brave enough to embark on, and at first he only tightens his grip on her hand in response. When she says his name again, he sighs and looks ahead of them, carefully leading her across the street as the crosswalk sign blinks orange.

"Hmm," he hums, distractedly, as Maka trips over the lip of the sidewalk. "Careful-"

"Do you want to leave?"

His pace breaks. Soul stares at her, hand still linked with hers, as she steps up and brushes her shoulder against his arm. "What?"

"That girl…"

Those galaxies are quickly shrouded by clouds. Soul's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, squeezing her hand impossibly tighter as he says, "Maka, really, drop it."

"But you kissed her. You _let_ her kiss you," she amends, thickly, heart clogging her throat. She can feel her pulse in her breath, in the way she parts her lips and tries to get the words out that won't come. "You just- you've never been interested in anyone enough to kiss them before, and I don't… want you to think you have to stay glued to my hip if there's someone else you want to be with more."

His expression darkens unreadably. Brows drawn, he looms over her, taller than she can ever remember him being, more solemn than she's seen him in years. "I'm not leaving you, Maka. We're a team, aren't we? We've always been. It's like you said. I'm your-" Soul fidgets, free hand clenching before he stuffs it into his pocket. "... you know. I'm your brother. Your family. Whatever you need me to be, I'm yours."

_Not in love with him._

Something's bound to break, and Maka's sure it's going to be her. With a cry caught in her chest, she blubbers, "I don't _want_ you to be my brother if you don't want to be."

By now, they've completely stopped walking. They're standing in the middle of the sidewalk, being _those people_ \- lovers that quarrel and make her late for work, feuding pals that take up more space than they've been rightfully allotted - and Maka grabs at her hair madly, ready to pull, ready to scream. Soul drops her hand and she's never felt colder. There's space between her fingers where he belongs, space that has belonged to him for longer than she can remember.

He shakes his head, staring at his feet. "I didn't say I didn't _want_ to be your brother."

"Look me in the eyes when you say that," she says, voice wavering. " _Mean it,_ Soul."

And jaw clenched, he raises his gaze and stares at her. Those clouds murking the deep wine of his eyes have cleared and all at once, she's struck by the intensity of them, how profound the color is and how deeply the darkness stains under his eyes. He looks at her as if there's nothing else in the world, just her, with her hands caught in her hair and expression wild. And maybe it's fair, because her whole world has shrunk down to just him, too - this infuriating, lazy, _brilliant_ boy with secret smiles and long limbs and bottomless eyes.

He takes a step closer. Another. Then another, until their toes touch, until there's no way for him to get closer without pressing against her.

Soul licks his lips and says, "I want whatever will make you happy."

_Not in love with him. Not in love with him._

Her hands clench into fists and she pounds them against his shoulders, her entire body quaking. "I- _that's not what I asked!_ " she bursts, shaking her head back and forth, incredulously, as he remains still as a statue. He's unmovable, unflappable, lips drawn into an even line. "Would you- _God,_ Soul would you be selfish, just once in your life?!"

His stone doesn't even crack. "I'm selfish," he says. "I'm selfish all the time."

"You're not!" Her hands clench on his shoulders, shaking, shaking him, because _why won't he budge?_ "Maybe I want _you_ to be happy, too! Maybe I'm sick of making all of the decisions and trapping you like you're my own private little caretaker! Maybe, god, just _maybe_ I want you to make _a choice_ for once. For _you._ "

Soul blinks slowly, staring, unfocused, lower, like maybe at her nose or her chin. "For _me?_ Is that really what you want, Maka?"

" _Yes!"_

His hands are warm on her jaw. What's even warmer, though, are his lips. A gasp catches in her throat as he looms over her, hunched over, like a weeping willow, as she tastes his mouth. Hands trapped between them, she clenches the worn leather of his jacket out of instinct, neck tilting, as he slants his mouth over hers. He swallows the words bursting from her lips with nothing more than a smart slide of his tongue.

Shell shocked, she stares as he straightens over her, a remorseful tightness in his brows. _Oh,_ she thinks. _Oh?_

"I'm _selfish,_ " Soul says again, more quietly this time.

"Soul-"

"No, forget it," he says, and there's those old walls of his again, rapidly rising around him, brick by wretched brick. "I just- want you to be _happy,_ Maka."

Her mouth opens wordlessly. She closes it, then parts her lips again, as Soul's hands slide back into his pockets. Maka blinks and asks, "Do you think this will make me happy?"

"I don't know what will make you happy anymore," he admits to the damp sidewalk. "Forget it even happened. It was a mistake. I was wrong. _Sorry._ Guess I got caught up in the heat of the moment."

By the time she's gathered her thoughts, he's already walking from her in long, wilting strides, guilt written in every thunderous footstep. She touches her hand to her mouth, lips still buzzing, then claps it over her heart, but it's impossible to silence the tragedy of its booms. Feet move on their own accord, and then she's sprinting after him, tripping over her feet to catch up. Soul doesn't slow his pace, even for a moment, and doesn't even glance up when she catches up.

Her hands are tucked inside her pockets, too.

It's hard to tell him that kissing her was simultaneously everything she wanted from him and nothing at all. _**Mistake**_ resounds in her bones like a swan song, and Maka falls into step with him wordlessly, wondering if she's really that terrible of a kisser, of how deeply he regrets crossing that line. The saddest part, more than any of that, is now she's sure - she's kind of _(really)_ in love with him - and he wants her to forget about it.

So she'll be his best friend.

After all, Maka would do anything to make him happy. She loves him, and the _how_ doesn't matter.


	6. part six

**PART 6  
SOUL**

**.**

He wakes to the smell of coffee.

Groggily, Soul emerges from his bedroom, absently rubbing his face and scrubbing the sleepies from his eyes. Mid-morning daylight streams in through Maka's faded curtains and Soul, three parts emotionally exhausted and two parts physically exhausted, is duly unprepared for the onslaught of guilt that slams into him, fiercer than any hangover he's ever experienced. There's so much of Maka scattered through his home - _their_ home - that it's hard for him to separate between what is his and what is hers. The paint coating their living room walls is hers, but the acoustic guitar sitting in the corner of the room, tucked against her bookcase is _his_. His antidepressants sit on the counter by her daily vitamins. His soy milk is a neighbor to her cranberry juice.

It's too early for a round of self-loathing. He hasn't even pumped his veins full of caffeine yet.

Which, he thinks, is probably step one. Coffee, eggs, meds, and then bed for another few hours, until he's successfully smothered the impending doom that pounds in the back of his head like a heartbeat.

The kitchen is empty. The coffee pot gurgles with life, filling the otherwise empty air with caffeine-laden buzz, but otherwise there's no sign of life. No Maka, smiling at him with damp hair and pink lips, nibbling at the corner of some toast. No Tsubaki, even, with her understanding eyes, quietly twisting Maka's hair into an intricate braid, like he'd been expecting. Or _hoping._

Next to the coffee pot sits a note. It's short, with the same dark, tiny print that he knows belongs to Maka's hand.

 _Went out dress shopping with Tsubaki and Liz. Be back later._  
\- Maka  
(We're bringing back takeout!)

Soul crumbles the lined paper in his hand and tosses it in the trash. Her penned words shouldn't make him feel so guilty. A lack of a shoddily drawn, uneven heart scratched next to her name shouldn't make the remorse pound harder, shouldn't make his eyelids heavy and chest hot.

The reunion is in two days. And he doesn't want to go now, more than ever before. How is he supposed to sit and play pretend, like everything is normal between him and Maka in front of all of their old peers, if he can't look at her without feeling like the world's biggest tool? He'd sworn to himself that he'd swallow down all of the less than platonic things he felt for her. And yet he'd still cracked, still _forced himself_ on her, however he might look at it, and disgust sits heavy in him like sludge. That's not the kind of guy he is. That's not the kind of guy he's ever wanted to be. It's the exact kind of guy he swore he'd punch in the face, should one approach Maka.

And yet. And _yet._

It… hadn't exactly been _not_ consensual. Maybe. She had asked him to be selfish. Asked him what he wanted. And he delivered, however terrible. Maka hadn't pushed him away. She'd just… gasped, this tiny noise buzzing from her lips, from her to him, and god, just the thought of it still eats away at him like acid.

His heart slams in his chest traitorously. Her lips had been so soft.

But it wasn't what she wanted. How could she know that was what he wanted? She couldn't. She wasn't asking for a kiss. She was asking for an answer, for words, and instead he'd delivered with his tongue in her mouth and hands on her face, as if he'd actually had permission to enter her personal space and breach her trust.

Soul downs a cup of coffee, haphazardly burns some eggs and takes his meds. He suspects no amount of serotonin will make him feel less like a grubby asshole.

.

Her eyes haunt him like his childhood nightmares.

Instead of demons lurking in dimly lit rooms, though, it's Maka and her big green eyes staring at him beneath the streetlight's humming glow. Maka, looking so lovely, with her hair down and her pink, pink lips, brows drawn together as he leans in closer, closer, until he can practically taste the confusion on her tongue. Only this time she is not complacent, not mind-bogglingly pliable as she lets him kiss her, she is angry. Rightfully so, with her tiny hands balled up into fists as she shoves him away, disgust written into her features.

And she is disappointed. She is appalled. She is _leaving._

_Maka is leaving._

Alone, and sweating in his bed, he wakes with a start, chest heaving, blankets astray. Soul pushes a hand through his hair, struggling to catch his breath, lest the voices down the hall hear him struggle.

The girls are home. The knowledge that he's not alone is enough to give him the strength to shut these new demons up tight and brace himself for interaction. He combs his fingers through his hair, straightens out his clothes, stares into his bedroom mirror for a good fifteen minutes, silently preparing himself to face the music. If Maka had let slip what happened the night before, he can count his ass more than kicked. Liz will personally see to it that he never sees the light of day. And as terrifying as that is, part of him welcomes the punishment willingly. He wants to be reprimanded. He wants Maka to shake her head or click her tongue, not bring him back takeout and smile at him with pity lurking in her eyes.

Throat tight, he pushes himself down the hall.

"About time you got up, sleepy head," Liz says. "We've been texting you for half an hour. Maka thought you were dead."

From her perch atop the counter, she hisses, " _Liz."_

For whatever reason, they're gathered in the kitchen, picking at their styrofoam to-go containers. And Blake is here. _Why is Blake here._

He gapes like a fish for a solid minute, blinking owlishly, before his gaze slips to Maka without his permission. _As if he still has the right to look at her,_ after last night, after watching her eyes widen and that age-old fear of intimacy make itself apparent on her face. But habits are habits, and through everything, he supposes Maka will always be his go-to, like the guiding light amidst all his darkness. She meets his eye in that fearless way of hers, head on, without even flinching, and smiles, slight and sad. Somehow, it's worse than her pity.

"Bro!" Blake greets, beaming. "Mornin'."

"It's three PM," Liz cuts in.

" _Mornin'!"_

Soul risks a wave, half heartedly, and watches as Maka's eyes fall back to her lap, twisting her plastic fork in her noodles.

Through all the commotion, she's still the only thing that matters. And as thankful he is for the potential distraction of his best friend, and Maka's girl friends, he'd really rather be alone with her to try and feel out where they stand. Liz's ring catches the light just right and for a moment he's blinded, throat tight, eyes hot.

"Yeah," Soul grunts, distracted. "How was, uh… shopping?"

Tsubaki, standing by Maka, brightens. "Oh! Wonderful. Maka especially made out well."

His roommate pinks, chewing her lip. "It's a dress, not a miracle."

"Tits are still tits," Liz reminds, pointing her plastic silverware at her. Soul finds himself humming in agreement before he can stop himself and his ears burn at Blake's pointed look. "Really, Maka, I thought you outgrew this in high school. You're going to look hot. You always look hot."

"I know!" Maka snaps, burning brighter. "I _know,_ it's just-"

Her gaze slides to him and he stares back, open and vulnerable, unsure, as Maka chews her lip. What? _What?_

"... Nothing," she mumbles, styrofoam squeaking in her lap. "I guess it's just hard to rewrite years of teasing, you know? I'm kind of hard wired to assume the worst."

His mouth feels dry. He parts his lips, hoping to pin her to the spot with the heat of his stare. Between the things he's left unsaid and the things he has managed to relay, unfortunately, during his less than favorable pre-teen years, he supposes he's done quite a bit of damage. But his throat burns, thoughts hotter on his tongue than ever before - doesn't she know how lovely she is? How distracting she is? How he can't go a day without thinking about her smile, the freckles dotting over her nose, her fair eyelashes and blushing cheeks?

Doesn't she know she's ruined him? The thought that he might find her unattractive is so laughable. She's everything, slight chest and slim hips and all.

But there are too many people around, and shyness never really goes away. Soul leans against the side of the refrigerator and asks, "What color is it?"

"Huh?"

"Your dress," he says. "What color is it? Gonna have to match you or… something, right?"

Maka almost looks guilty, nibbling the end of her fork, feet dangling and swaying in the air. "I, um," she stumbles, unusually unsure, "you don't have to match me. If you don't want to, I mean. It's not like… it's not prom."

Not a date. _Not a date,_ she means, and Soul's stomach drops.

"Okay."

It's like she's held captive by the weight of his stare. She peeks up at him through her lashes and he wonders where that headstrong girl has gone, where the Maka from five minutes ago has run off to. "Okay," she echoes, knees rubbing together, takeout container teetering on her lap, and for a moment he's magnetized to her legs, soft and pale and delicious and fuck, fuck, fuck, he's just like her father, thinking only with his penis, only this has _never been a problem for him before._

"It's red," Liz blurts. "Christ, you two, get a room or something if you're going to look at each other like that. She's wearing a tight red dress, Soul. Break out your old red tie. Let everyone know that you two are still an old married couple minus the sex."

" _Liz!"_

"Nah, it's fine," Soul finds himself saying, shrinking beneath the wave of attention, eyes dropping to safe places like the floor, or his feet - or anything but her lily-white knees, pressing together maddeningly. He doesn't have permission to look at her like that. He has zero right to want her. "Whatever makes her happy."

.

He needs to chill out.

It's not _healthy_ for him to be spread so thin. For what Soul Evans lacks in conversation, he makes up for in spades in overthinking. Perhaps he's Maka's foil in that way - Maka will internalize things, but she will also kick and scream and cry - but he will not. Born and raised an Evans, he's fluent in maintaining a poised facade, and nothing, even a healthy bout of self-loathing and a side serving of lifelong anxiety will keep him from his duty. It's how he was raised. It's written in his code.

It's _exhausting_. Taxing on the mental health, absolutely, and his dry mouth and sweaty hands serve to make absolutely nothing easier. It hasn't been this bad in a long time, not since Maka had helped him work up the nerve to talk to someone about the things going on in his head.

For as long as he can remember, she's been there for him, be it roughing up his bullies or pushing his swing on the playground. And he's tried so very hard to return the favor - to support her through her parent's divorce, to carry her to bed when she's fallen asleep at the kitchen table, mulling over work emails and the likes. They _worked_ together, falling in step like two birds of a feather. She likes B-rated horror movies and greasy takeout food. She hates bullies, hates being put into a corner, hates hair clogging the shower drain. She loves so very deeply, with her entire soul, and holds his hand so tightly that it sometimes hurts.

And he's _ruining_ that. How can he hold her hand, knowing he's the one making her hurt?

Sometimes he wonders if he relies too heavily on Maka, if it's _unhealthy_ for him to cite her as his saving grace. As a child - and even a young teen, really - she'd been quite like a guardian angel, the answer to his crippling social anxiety, his _voice_ \- but now, in his early twenties, he can definitely tell how that may have been a lot of pressure on any one girl. But stubborn, stubborn Maka would have never voiced that strain. Soul knows for a fact that she'd shoulder his weight in a heartbeat, with fierce set brows and the kind of eyes that could see through worlds.

Thinking about the fact that he might be an emotional mooch breaks him out into a cold sweat. Soul sets his face into his hands and slouches over in bed, forcing deep, even breaths. He's not that guy anymore. He's better now. He's stronger. And he cares, he cares, he _cares_ about her and her smile.

He needs to get a handle on this attraction to her. He also really could use a blunt, but Maka doesn't like it when he smokes in the apartment. And he's overstepped enough boundaries for one month.

Three knocks on his door draw him out of his haze. Soul swears under his breath and scrubs at his face. "What?"

"Can I come in?"

Debatable. The current state of his room is questionable at best. There's a plethora of boxers and t-shirts scattered along his floor like objects for a scavenger hunt. His bed is wholly unmade. _He's still in bed_.

"If you want," he answers instead.

His door creaks. Maka pokes her head in, predictably makes a face at his messy room, then rests her gaze on him. And because he's never been able to hide anything from her for very long, he lets himself slouch back into the safety of his blankets, unable to maintain any sort of facade.

She reads the situation and lets the door click behind her. "Can we talk?"

He snorts, counting the bumps and rises of the Stucco ceiling. "Dunno. Every time we talk, things just get worse. Maybe we should just leave things be for a bit."

"I'll talk. You can listen?" He spares a glance her way. Maka chews her lip, looking nervous and small, so unlike herself. "Please?"

Grunting, he yanks himself back up to sit and lets his arms drop into his lap. "Fine."

Her eyes burn bright and suddenly she's so much more than the tiny girl lingering in his doorway. Good. Demure has never suited her, not when he's so intimately acquainted with the part of her that knocked out a bar patron's front teeth for putting a hand on Jackie. Maka grips the hem of her skirt and says, fearlessly, "I'm not angry at you."

The guilt crinkles in his chest like tissue paper. "You should be, Maka," he mumbles. Presently, the nausea spiraling in his gut threatens to break free, and Soul grapples over the side of his bed for a bag or something, just in case. Heart to heart conversations are taxing on him, especially when he's in one of his _moods,_ especially when he feels so at fault for that tight pull of her lips. "I crossed a line."

Maka swallows. He watches her throat and _god_ , there's another stirring in his blood he would much rather keep quiet. "I asked you to, remember? I asked you what you wanted, a-and you-"

"It made you _uncomfortable,_ " he finishes. Maka's brows crease, so he continues, muttering, "I won't do it again. I'm not your gross dad. I don't even… like kissing that much, really," he admits, scrubbing the back of his neck. What he won't admit is he quite liked kissing _her,_ actually, as short-lived and inappropriate as it was, and it put that whole night with what's-her-name-with-the-rad-ink to shame.

Her grip on her skirt tightens. "I-" she stops herself, lips pursing, feet shuffling, that maddening wrinkle between her brow pleats more. "But you're uncomfortable _now,_ " she says finally. "You've been in bed all day. I'm worried."

"Maybe I didn't sleep last night."

The fire in her eyes cracks and gives way to her own brand of guilt. Soul hates himself, that little bit more. "I'm sorry."

He leans his head back and glues himself to the ceiling again. The ceiling doesn't have pretty doll eyes and pink lips and legs that go on for days. The ceiling can't make him feel worse than he already does. "Don't be. My fault, remember? You were just being you. Caring too much about other people. I took advantage of that and did something I shouldn't. I don't want to put whatever _this_ is in danger."

Her laugh sounds watery. He doesn't dare look and confirm his suspicions. " _You're_ the one who cares too much. Locking yourself in your room all day like you did something wrong - one kiss isn't going to change us, Soul. You're still my best friend, no matter what."

' _Best friend'_ burns just as much as it soothes. Like a healing salve. Soul pries his eyes from the ceiling and watches her cautiously pad her way over to his bed. _It's okay, kitty kitty, I only want to pet you. That's a good boy. I come in peace._

He slips his legs over the edge of the bed, snorting at the thought. Maka steps between his parted knees, expression open and honest. She always has worn her heart on her sleeve.

"I won't do it again," Soul repeats, flipping his hands over his knees. "Promise."

Her fingers still for a moment, grazing over the sensitive skin of his palms, leaving heat and tingly fascination in the wake of her touch. He watches her work, watches her tiny fingers and slim wrists twitch, hears her suck in a deep breath, before mumbling, " _Okay,"_ so very quiet and tender that he almost misses it. When her palms slide against his, he laces his fingers tightly around hers and locks them in place.

"Where's Tsu?"

She exhales slowly, slowly, guiding her thumb along the back of his hand. Their tied hands rest between them, raised to his chest, and he has to fight off the urge to press twin kisses to the back of her pale palms. "With Blake."

"Again?"

Maka laughs quietly. "Right? He's coming to the reunion now. Apparently he's her date."

"Oh." He sits on the thought. Sours quickly. " _God."_

He meets her eye and she smiles, just a bit, shaking her head. Her hair's done up in twin braids, and the look is both darling and youthful. "Nothing is sacred. He's going to tear that chocolate fountain apart."

Soul blinks groggily. "There's going to be a chocolate fountain?"

"Priorities, Soul."

His hands are sweaty. He'd been so close to getting sick earlier and there's no way she can't tell, now that she's so close, now that she's touching him and peering into his very soul with those watchful eyes of hers. Nothing slips past Maka Albarn. He can only hope she can't read the desperate adoration for her that flows through his veins like a second life force. Please, please, let this be the one thing she misses. For his sake. For their sake.

Maka squeezes his hands tight and asks, "Do you have a red shirt?"

"... Uh?"

She pinks, adorably. "I _meant_ to go with my dress. Maybe. If you want to?"

Matching her will be the closest thing he'll ever have to putting a ring on her finger. "Yeah," he croaks, all too eagerly, and swallows down the hope bubbling in his chest at once. "I have a red shirt. A red tie, too. Whichever looks better."

"Liz picked it out, so-" Maka purses her lips. They're bare, sans maybe a quick layer of chapstick, and yet he can't stop himself from staring at them, from thinking about them. "Promise me you won't laugh when you see me in it."

"I only laugh at your puppy pjs. Sexy dresses are fine."

"I'm not a sexy person," she admits. "I'm not comfortable in tight dresses and I'm not exactly, um, you know- so don't laugh. Or I'll give you a charlie horse."

He wouldn't dream of it.

.

Because they're on the mend, they don't go out for the night. Maka drags her pillow into his room and deposits herself neatly beside him. They're both fully dressed, because their sleepovers have never been sexual in nature, and Soul only cracks a weak grin at Maka's cartoon-printed pajama shorts before she slips her way beneath his blankets. Her fuzzy socks are itchy against his ankles. Her elbows are so bony. He doesn't dare voice any of his thoughts, just melts into the warmth around him - blankets and pillows and Maka's body heat - bonelessly, tucking his face neatly against her bare shoulder.

"Whatcha reading?" he mumbles into her skin.

She shivers, just for a moment, before cracking her book open. "Just something I picked up at the library."

"Never should have gotten you that library card for your birthday."

He loves the way she smiles, tiny and suppressed, only because she's fighting back the urge to laugh or roll her eyes at him. "That was ten years ago, Soul."

"I fueled an addiction."

"Shhh. Put on your headphones. Give me one, actually. I want to listen too."

He does, because it's routine, and Soul's a little desperate for things to return to normal. If he can't be her boyfriend, or her husband, or lover or something more or _whatever,_ he wants to be what he can. Her best friend. Her brother. Her important person, the one she sleeps beside when the nights are long and the insecurities come knocking. It's more important than having the right to _sleep with her_ anyway.

"Bossy," he whines, because he's Soul and he can't _not_ sass her, not when things are starting to return to normal. Still, he pops a headphone into her ear and powers up his iPod. When the music starts, Maka smiles, placated, and flips the page.

She reads. He skims, following the path of her finger as she traces the words on the page. Ink blurs together. Maka hums along to the tune of the acoustic piece he's selected and he presses his cheek more firmly to her shoulder. And he pretends that things haven't been weird between them for days , pretends he hadn't gotten a taste of her lips only a night prior, pretends that he's seventeen again and she sixteen and they're tucked in her tiny bedroom, alone, while her Papa spends the night with the flavor of the week.

Another page flip, and then, "Soul?"

"Hmmm."

"You really don't have to go to the reunion if you don't want to. It's fine. I don't want to force you to do anything you're not comfortable with. It was selfish of me to ask."

He slips back into his own personal space and breathes out through his nose. Is there a way to tell her he wants an excuse to hold her hand and spin her around? That for just one night, people will assume that she's his and he's hers and he really kind of wants that, in his own selfish, greedy sort of way? He can't. Not without sounding like he wants to be her boy.

God, does he want to be her boy. In whatever way he can.

"It's important to you. And I graduated too, you know," he mumbles, carefully, with a measured tone and an even expression. "Kind of want to rub it in some faces that I didn't go off the deep end."

" _Soul."_

Self-deprecating humor aside, he nudges her shoulder gently and says, "I'm not gonna let you go alone. _You're_ not alone, Maka," because it's _true,_ and she settles beside him, tension waning from her tight shoulders like steam. "I'm going."

"We don't have to stay the whole time."

"I know."

"If you want to leave, just tell me and we can."

Soul huffs and turns up the music. "I get it, Maka. Stop worrying so much. I'm not doing anything I don't wanna. Trust me."

.

"Bro," Blake sighs dreamily. "She's like… she's the most beautiful person I've ever met. I can't believe you've known such a goddess for so long and never told me about her. Bro. _Bro._ "

Soul laughs, but it sounds funny to his own ears. Deciding he's not really in a playful mood after all, he irons out his expression, crosses his arms over his chest and says, "I didn't really think you two would click."

"Bro! She's- have you _seen_ her," Blake blurts, expression wild and enamored and overall kind of unsettling, and Soul leans back in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. When he doesn't say anything more, Blake continues, not even paying attention to the cute waitress that gallops by in a short skirt. "Her body. And- her eyes. They're like oceans. But not, because I've never seen her cry or anything-" he snaps his fingers, "they're like _stars!"_

"This is getting kind of gross. You're mushy. You're never mushy."

Blake grins, finally, leaning forward in his seat. "I could talk about her boobs."

"No, no, don't do that. She's a friend. I've known her since I was twelve."

"Pfff, so what. You've known _Maka_ longer," Blake says, still grinning that maddening smile, and something sinks in Soul's gut. Drops like a bowling ball, and his drummer only laughs all the more, taking a long, loud slurp of his drink before announcing, "You've got it bad, bro."

"Shut up," Soul hisses.

"Just say it out loud. Maybe it'll be good to put it out into the world. See, look, I'll do it first, since we're brothers in arms here," and then Blake's standing on his chair, hands cupped over his mouth, shouting, "TSUBAKI NAKATSUKASA IS A _TOTAL BABE."_

If Soul could sink further into the seat, he could. As it stands, he's already attempting to melt back into the cushioned booth and become one with the plastic-lined seating. "Sit down. Shut up. Oh my god."

Blake hops down, grins at a couple of hollering men and downs his drink. "See? It's easy. You go."

"You and I both know that's not going to happen."

"God, you're emotionally constipated. No wonder you two have been just friends for so long. You still can't spit it out!" Blake, still shouting, exclaims, and Soul attempts to hide behind an open menu, too, lest the population of Death City finally light up their torches and put an end to his miserable existence. "You want to bone Maka Albarn. Bad. You want all up in her skinny business. You want to _lick_ her."

Soul absolutely does not need neither visuals or inspiration. His mind is creative enough, thank you. "Star," he grunts. "Really. Cut the shit. I don't want to talk about it."

Blake rolls his eyes. "What happened?"

"What?"

"That night. After the gig. With that girl. You've been all kinds of weird and guilty since that night. Did she do something you didn't like? Because, shit, if you said no and she kept going-"

"I kissed her," Soul blurts. "... A bit." Or a lot. And let her push him against a wall and mark his neck with her lipstick because he'd thought it would help clear things up for him.

And it did. Now he knows with resounding clarity that Maka's ruined women for him. He can't look at another girl the way he looks at her. He can't feel for another girl the way he feels for her. Nothing (and nobody) can compare, and maybe it's a little twisted and unhealthy, but he can't help it.

He feels dirty and wrong for wanting her. _Wanting_ her.

Blake leans forward, clearly intrigued at this new series of events. "Bro."

"I was drunk. And she- and _Maka_ ," Soul blurts, helplessly, pulling his hands into fists on his lap. "You know how she is about hook ups."

"But you didn't sleep with her? You're still a big virgin?"

" _Star."_

"Sorry, insensitive, right, yadda yadda," Blake waves his hand and Soul grumbles, sipping from his soda with utmost attention. "So, what, Maka thinks you banged her? Was she jealous?"

The question of the century. "No. I don't think- _why are we still talking about this,_ " Soul says miserably. "I don't do heart-to-hearts. And neither do you, what the fuck."

His drummer holds a hand over his chest and says, very solemnly, "Tsu has been guiding me in the ways of the heart. The goddess is a gracious, kind one, and advises emotional conversations between friends to tighten bonds. Aaand I kind of feel shitty about sending you out into the world like that. Sorry. You're not exactly the most social dude I know."

Soul might be more touched if Blake's hand was on the left side of his chest. "Uh," he says instead.

Blake raises his brow. Still doesn't drop his hand from clutching his right pec. "Was Maka jealous?"

"... Maka's not interested."

"Did you ask? How do you know, Soul?"

Shredding a napkin, he mutters, "I just do. I'm her brother, you know. Her _family._ Which is why I want you to shut up."

He keeps staring. Soul glares back, ripping apart the napkin more ferociously before, until their table is littered with little pieces of jagged white confetti. And he doesn't meet Blake's eye until after they've ordered their food and Blake's begun nibbling at his cheese fries, guilt coiling deeper in his stomach.

When he does, Blake offers a greasy, reassuring grin. Soul tosses the confetti at him and grunts, "I have no idea what Tsu sees in you."

Blake waggles his brows and leers. "It's the motion of the ocean, bro."

"Ugh, Star! What part about _I've known her since I was twelve don't you get?!"_

He laughs and laughs, flinging a few stray cheese fries at his best friend in apology. Soul munches them very moodily, frowning (not pouting) when Blake tries grinning at him again. "Fiiine, alright," he says finally, holding up a hand in vow, "I won't grind up on Tsu at the reunion. Don't think she's too keen on PDA anyway. I'll try to keep things as PG as possible… if you tell me what the fuck's going on with you and pigtails."

"Star."

Blake waves a fry at him. "I'll give you cheese, bro. Won't even tell your girlfriend. Bro's honor. Now fess up."

He is just a man and he's weak, so weak, to the seductive ways of dairy. "Fine," he grunts, tugging over Blake's plate of forbidden desire. "Okay, whatever. First things first, she's _not_ my girlfriend…"


	7. part seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update took extra long because i was busy sobbing over reverb. hope this doesn't disappoint! ♥

**PART 7  
MAKA**

.

It's a little bit like prom.

Maka teeters in her heels and stares at her reflection. The last time she was this dolled up, Soul was nervously pinning a wrist corsage on her and escorting her to the school's stuffy gym. It's been years since they were juniors, but Maka doesn't really feel much older - and doesn't particularly think she looks it, either. She can't call herself a late bloomer if she never actually _bloomed_. Her face is still round, full cheeks, baby face and all. There are pesky freckles dotting down her nose. She's short.

She's still not sold on red being her color.

It's a mature color. Hell, it's a mature _dress_ \- tight, hip hugging, with the intent to showcase her figure and 'make her ass look awesome' (Liz's words, not hers). There's even a dip in the neckline to showcase what Maka assumes would be cleavage on anyone else, but on her, it just highlights the line of her spine and peaks of her collarbones. She is a grown woman in a slight body, gentle curves and thin waist, wide eyes and small lips. Objectively, Maka supposes she looks good; the dress fits her like a glove, and with her meager chest, a bra isn't necessary - but it's hard to bury the age-old body image issues that have haunted her since her preteens.

Maka smoothes her hands down her hips and heaves a sigh. Okay, so she doesn't look bad, but she still doesn't feel like she looks great. Red is a color that demands attention. Red is a color that stops traffic and turns heads, and that's just not the kind of girl Maka is. It might work for Liz, who can demand that sort of undivided attention with nothing more than a hair flip and a carefully aimed stare, but Maka doesn't quite carry herself in the same way. She has courage, yes, but feeling like she's playing dress-up in her step-mother's closet is another story.

Chewing her lip, she mutters, "Is it too much? I have a black dress in my closet somewhere-"

Tsubaki looks up, mascara wand poised gracefully in hand. "It's nice!"

"It doesn't feel like me," Maka says, squirming, tugging the hem of her dress down. "I don't know. Maybe it's inappropriate."

Tsubaki twists the mascara shut and swivels in her chair. She's a vision in her dress, adorned in a deep midnight blue, wide hips and soft breasts and gorgeous, willowy height. It's no wonder Blake was enamored with her instantaneously; she's a goddess, plain and simple. "You _look_ like Maka in a dress," she says soothingly, brows knit. "Didn't you say Soul was matching you?"

"He has other ties. And shirts."

"But you look _good,_ Maka," Tsubaki insists. "Really good. And your legs look really beautiful in heels."

A wave of heat washes over her cheeks, and Maka tucks her hair behind her ear bashfully. "Oh. Um, thanks. I can't really walk in them very well, though. And I don't like them. Men invented high heels so they didn't step in horse shit."

Her friend purses her lips, hiding a little smile, and rises to walk over to her. "It's okay," Tsubaki says, walking behind her to pull Maka's loose hair out of her face. "We can reclaim the shoe. Can I help you with your hair?"

Maka laughs humorlessly. "Will it make my boobs look bigger?"

With a quiet click of her tongue, Tsubaki runs her fingers through Maka's blonde hair and begins sectioning parts of it off. It's silly, to still compare herself to her friends, but at the same time it's so hard not to. It sucks to be the runt of the litter, to have a body type that's often considered sexually immature and unappealing. Maybe if her shape was a little fuller, she thinks, Soul might want her back.

She squashes that thought quickly. He likes a more feminine shape, sure, but there's no way Soul would turn anyone down for the way they looked. He's too genuine for that. Too introspective, too self conscious himself, too _Soul._ Besides, up until about a week ago, Maka had been so sure he wasn't too overtly attracted to _anything._

"Sorry," she mumbles after. "I know it's stupid to still care about stuff like that."

Tsubaki tugs her hair gently, just enough to weave the strands through an intricate braid, curving back around the crown of her head. "It's not stupid if you worry about it," she says serenely, almost motherly. "We're all a little self conscious about something. I feel like my thighs are too big."

Maka snorts. "Blake loves thick thighs. He wrote a whole song about it a year ago and tried to get Soul to agree to help him perform it."

In their reflection, Maka watches Tsubaki blush, watches the way the light pink spreads over her delicate features like watercolors. "That's nice," she says, still braiding so meticulously, hooking her pinky under layers of Maka's hair just to tug them back and weave them into the plait. There's an odd, sad smile curling along her painted lips. "But just because a boy thinks it's attractive doesn't mean it'll automatically solve that insecurity. If he likes them, sure, that helps-" she apologizes quietly for tugging on Maka's hair too hard, "We all have things we'd like to change about our bodies, but at the end of the day, they still function and carry us, and I think that's really beautiful. _Life_ is beautiful. No matter what any boy thinks."

Blonde hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves. Tsubaki had been right - per usual - sleeping with her damp hair in a braid worked wonders for hair texture. The girl staring back at her is slight, undeniably so, but with long, strong legs and high breasts and a button nose. She's pretty in her own unique way, just as the graceful, smiling girl behind her is.

"There," Tsubaki says. "All done. I gave you a waterfall braid."

Only after she's done choking on hairspray and brushing her bangs from her eyes does Maka think to thank her. She's met with a sincere smile and a nod, a wave of her hand, before Tsubaki plops back down into her chair and continues her quest of lengthening her lashes as much as humanly possible.

.

"Soul, are you done in there yet? We have to get going or else we're going to be late! We're supposed to meet Kid and Liz in twenty minutes at their place and you haven't even left the bathroom yet-!"

The door creaks, and all at once, Maka remembers why Soul Evans is dangerous in a suit.

He doesn't wear them often. Calls them monkey suits, complains about them being uncomfortable and stuffy - Maka thinks they remind him of his childhood and piano recitals, and if that doesn't serve as a suitable throwback to his stressful boyhood days, well, she doesn't know what does. But he's attractive in a suit, all buttoned up, looking sharp in well-fitted pants and dress shoes. To top it all off, sometime between picking up his suit from the dry cleaner and taking a shower, he's gotten a haircut. Bye bye _bye,_ shaggy Soul, _hello_ Mr. Evans.

It's a nice look for him. _Mature._ But Maka still kind of misses his hair pulled back in a ponytail, kind of misses being able to run her fingers through it and weave it into sloppy braids when he's feeling particularly anxious.

He swallows and his Adam's apple bobs, right above his collar. Maka blinks rapidly and fights to keep her gaze on his face and not ogle her best friend like a little creep. They've finally started patching up the latent weirdness between them as of late, and she'll be damned if she lets herself ruin it by slipping up and letting him know he looks particularly edible in a suit.

"Nice tie," she blurts.

He fiddles with the knot and grimaces. "I feel like Wes. Such a tool."

"Don't. You look good," she insists, then catches herself and takes a step back. "And Wes is more buff than you anyway."

Soul stares at her. "Thanks for the bode of confidence," he says dryly.

"Not everyone likes beefcakes, Soul. And he's barely muscular at all- he's just toned. We both know I could bench press him."

There's a spark of his old self in there, and he cracks a sharp grin, dimples and all. His fondness is palpable, and Maka feels warm, like she's captured in a hug despite standing a respectable distance away. "Albarn, you could bench press _me,_ and I sit on my ass all day eating cheetos. That's not a fair comparison at all."

Maka rolls her eyes. "You have a fast metabolism. All you eat is crap, and then you get sick because you never listen to your allergies-"

" _Intolerance._ "

"-your ALLERGIES, Soul," Maka says relentlessly, then pokes him in his stomach for good measure. He is not soft. Soul may not be built, and he may not have a personal trainer like his famous, borderline-celebrity brother, but he is still toned, and his form isn't even the slightest bit unattractive. "You're so stubborn."

He huffs moodily. "Speak for yourself. Uh. Anyway, does it look okay?"

"The suit?"

Soul makes a vague gesturing motion. "The hair. They went a little scissor happy and I've been trying to fix it. I look like a trust fund baby."

It's a flattering cut, but maybe it's not really him, much in the same way the dress isn't her. Without preamble, Maka hops onto her toes and pushes her fingers through his hair, brushes his bangs from his face, tousles the sides until it's a suitably organized mess. Soul laughs outright but doesn't flinch away, merely lets her do her work with an even smile, eyes aimed somewhere over her shoulder. He has such soft hair. Maka credits it to his expensive hair care routine, his leave-in conditioners and hair masks.

" _There,_ " she says, leaning back onto her heels with an audible _click._ He offers her a nervous little smile and she returns it, stomach fluttering. "You look eighteen again."

He groans. "Still can't believe mom made me get a haircut for graduation."

"You did kind of go out and get a tattoo without her knowledge."

"It's my _body,_ " Soul says, huffing. "Tattoos are cool. You said it looked cool when I was getting it done, remember?"

Maka finds herself reaching for the sleeve of his jacket and tugging. "I think it's _cool_ because you like it so much," she admits. Soul hadn't gotten his full sleeve done the night after he turned eighteen - and at 20, while he was particularly drunk and out with Blake for a night of predictable shenanigans, he'd certainly _tried_ to - but he had gotten a single music note on his wrist that night; a whole note, apparently, that was haloed with wings.

He has the mind to shut the bathroom light off behind him before he slips out after her. "I _am_ cool," he says again.

"The _coolest._ "

They linger in the dark hallway for half a beat. Tsubaki's waiting by the door, probably wrapping her thin shawl over her shoulders and wondering what's taking them so long. In truth, Maka kind of wonders, too. They're not talking. They're not walking. They're not doing anything but staring at each other - Soul gives her a slow, obvious onceover, unable to hide his glance beneath the length of his hair anymore - and Maka feels herself grow pink.

Shuffling self consciously, Maka crosses her arms over her chest and says, "I know, it's a lot-"

Somehow, she suspects Soul is even pinker than she is. "You look good," he admits quietly. "I'm just not used to seeing you all dressed up like-"

"Like Blair?" she asks, voice unnaturally high. "It's a lot of cleavage. Or, um. Sternum, because I'm really not-"

Soul coughs, stare glued to his shoes. "You look _good._ "

"You already said that."

He shuffles, tucking his thumbs into his pockets, offering an uncomfortable half-smile as he says, "Guess it's gotta be the truth then, huh," as if it won't complicate things further. Letting it go to her head will just tangle things more, unnecessarily, and Maka swallows down the butterflies in her chest and leads him out.

.

"Got some Zoloft if you need it," Soul says, awkwardly lingering behind a tense-looking Liz. "It helps with the anxiety."

Maka gasps. "Don't just go offering your meds to the undiagnosed, Soul!"

He gives her a _Look_ and then sighs, cracking beneath the weight of her stare. "Fine," Soul says finally, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have some weed back at the apartment if you want to try that instead. It'll chill you right out," he stage-whispers, lurking over Liz's shoulder like a shadow. "Works like a charm. It's how I made it through high school."

Liz manages to laugh, hooking her hoop earring and brushing her long hair from her face. Honeyed blonde slaps Soul in the face and he retreats, flinching back, and something in Maka curls, low and possessive. "You say that like we haven't smoked together before, Evans."

It is unreasonable for her to be jealous. For so many reasons - the biggest being that Liz is, indeed, _married,_ to their high school friend, at that. Among others, of course, like the fact that Maka is, despite Blake's constant teasing, not Soul's girlfriend, nor will she ever be, no matter what confusing, contrary feelings she holds in her heart say. She is his best friend, his roommate, his whatever else - but not his lover, and pursuing that particular lovelorn dream will just prove fatal. Getting jealous over Liz's long hair and the way she carries herself so effortlessly is ridiculous; Soul's not about to fall all over a married woman, and Liz isn't about to leave her husband for Maka's slouchy, hipster roommate.

As if on cue, Kid lets his hand rest on the small of Liz's back comfortingly. It's endearing, watching them interact, watching the wrinkles in Liz's forehead smooth out as Kid smiles bracingly at her. "Is everything alright?"

"Evans is propositioning me," Liz says without missing a beat.

Soul scoffs. "See if I try to help _you_ again. Ungrateful."

Kid elects to ignore him. "We can wait if you're uncomfortable. Stay outside for a bit and get some air."

"No," Liz sighs, leaning into his touch. She's quiet for a moment, very nearly blushing as Kid presses a supportive kiss to the crown of her head. "I'll be better once I get some wine into me. I'm alright, Kid."

"You're sure?"

She presses her lips together and pushes his shoulder away with a taut, teasing finger. "Don't baby me."

As if by instinct, Maka lets her gaze slip to Soul. He's got his hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes on her, unsurprisingly, but it still inspires a selfish sort of glee. Inappropriate, too. Maka squashes it, because the only reason he's even here is because she'd asked him to be and he would much rather have stayed home and slept through the damn reunion. But he's here anyway, with his haircut, guarded expression, and sharp suit, despite his misgivings, because _she asked him to._ It makes her happy in much the same way it makes her feel sick.

She raises a brow at him. He grimaces, then nods, shrinking back further, if possible. Behind him, Blake swings an arm around his neck and pulls him close, grinning. "Buck up!"

"Ugh," Soul grunts, squirming out of his best friend's grip. Blake seems to brush off the denial quickly, electing to instead hook his arm around Tsubaki's waist and pull her close. "Deodorant, dude."

"Wussat."

" _Ugh."_

Liz might be more vocal about her dread ("Does this dress say 'Gold Digger' to you?") but the fact remains that Soul doesn't really want to be there either. He hates crowds, hates parties, hates who he was in high school, so insecure and dodgy. And yet he's submitting to being paraded around on her arm, as if she has some claim on him. She doesn't. She _never_ has.

Maka lags back, allowing her pace to stagger in order to fall into step with him. Ahead of them, Kid leads Liz by the small of her back through the front door of the venue. Blake whoops and tugs a blushing, flustered Tsubaki in with him. Mid 2000's pop radiates from the sweltering gym, reminiscent of school dances of the past, of hair straighteners and leggings under her pleated skirts. It draws a snort from Soul, and he shakes his head beside her, already reaching for the door out of habit.

"Hey," she says quietly, tugging on his sleeve. He pauses, turning to face her. "You okay?"

The way the outdoor lights cast shadows on his face is so nostalgic. He's older now and yet somehow not, all at once the very same teenage boy who'd held her through her parent's divorce and the man who snores on her lap and helps her pay the bills. He's still handsome in that odd way of his, pale hair and dark, dark eyes.

He's so many things. Even just in the past week he's changed, still, impossibly, incredibly. He's gone from platonic roommate to brother to the walking embodiment of her heartache in days. Hours, even. And even now he's still changing, an ever-constant metamorphosis. Maka wonders when he'll spread his wings and fly.

Soul purses his lips. "Uh," he blurts. "Yeah? Yeah, I'm good. Are _you_ okay?"

The fluttering in her chest refuses to settle, but she still says, "Yeah," anyway. "Of course. We can still leave if you want. We can get burgers and shakes and stop by RedBox. There's time to back out."

"Hey now," he says, cracking a nervous grin. "That's my line, dweeblord."

"I'm serious. If you don't want to do this, speak now or forever hold your peace."

He snorts again, reaching for the door and holding it open for her. "Giving me an out. You're full of surprises, Albarn."

It stings a little. From inside, Fergie gets louder and louder. Cheering. It does a pretty fantastic job of drowning out the sound of her guilt eating her alive. "Soul, _really-_ "

"We went over this already, remember? It's fine. I have something to prove anyway. And _you're_ going to have a great time chatting everyone's ear off while I make my rounds around the h'ors doeuvres," Soul says bluntly. "C'mon, chivalry is dead. My arm's getting tired. Get your butt in there and make Ox Ford eat his words. You look like a damn model in that dress."

"A successful one?"

"Hurry up, Kate Moss."

.

"Maka Albarn!"

Flinching, Maka turns on her heels. "Hello, Ox."

Liz's chattering dies off as Ox Ford makes his way over to them. Maka can almost hear the exact moment Kid realizes what's about to go down and quickly escorts his wife away - presumably far enough to be out of immediate eavesdropping distance but close enough to make a quick rescue, should push come to shove. There's solidarity in that, and if she had more time to prepare, she might be able to bask in the thankfulness and support that Kid lends her without words, but Ox's long strides have him over in moments and instead, she's forced to iron out her expression.

 _Well,_ she thinks, _might as well get the pleasantries out of the way._ "Ox. You look well."

His smile is so damn smarmy. In a moment, Maka knows he hasn't changed a bit since high school, if the way he adjusts his glasses and stops to give her a judgemental once-over is any evidence.

"As do you," he says finally, brow arched. _Asshole._ "Where's Evans?

She barely resists the temptation to cross her arms over her chest. "Why do you assume he's with me?"

"You two are _together,_ aren't you?" Ox gestures vaguely to the empty space beside her. "You two were always together. You RSVP'd together, did you not? I thought it would be safe to assume that he would be glued to your hip. He always was in school-"

"We're not-" Maka swallows thickly, "- not _together._ "

"So he decided not to come?"

Maka lifts her glass of wine and nudges it in the direction of the table of food in the corner. "Last I saw him, he was making his rounds."

Ox can't smother his know-it-all grin fast enough and a righteous anger flares up in her, hot and consuming. Like liquid fire it pulsesthrough her veins, and Maka presses her lips together tightly and attempts to count to ten in her head. Anything to keep her from throwing a punch at their damn class reunion. Anything, anything to keep her from snapping and giving him the pleasure of winning this little game they have going; if there's one thing Maka doesn't miss from her school days, it's constantly working to one-up Ox Ford. Because sure, she's competitive and sure, having someone to beat certainly inspired her to bag her rightful spot at the top of their class, but the late nights and constant belittling hasn't been missed.

It's infuriating. He's the closest thing she's ever had to a bully and yet she still has the gall to be upset. There are people who had it worse. _Soul_ had it worse.

_Selfish girl. Don't you know he'd do anything for you? Anything to make you happy._

"What's with the _look_ ," Maka huffs. Ox takes a long sip of his wine. "Stop assuming things."

"I'm not assuming anything," Ox admits, but smug little face still makes her want to knock the daylights out of him. "I just think it's endearing that you two are here together. Just like old times, yes? You're here, talking to me, working the crowd, and he's off in the corner pouting and looking broody-"

"He's _thirsty,_ " she grits.

Ox only simpers more. "And _how_ he thirsts, Maka."

She doesn't even know what that _means._ In fact, she's not sure she _wants_ to know, so she tips back her glass and downs what's left of her wine. If she's going to make it through this conversation - hell, this night, if Ox is going to be around - she's going to need to be a lot more drunk than this. "Ugh," she blurts, brushing her lower lip with her thumb. "I'd love to catch up, but my glass is empty."

"You should really remedy that."

Scowling, she clenches the stem of her glass in her hands. " _Yes._ Take care, Ox. I'll tell Kim you say hi."

The way his face heats and expression tightens is a minor victory, but she'll take it. Turning on her feet, Maka takes extra care to click her heels as she storms away, weirdly validated by the audible punctuation of her comeback. It's petty, fighting fire with fire, but if it's what it takes to get Ox off of her case, well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. And really, he has no room to bring up Soul (roommate, best friend, _other half_ ) while his dream girl is too busy fucking her girlfriend to show up to their class reunion.

Kid and Liz stare as she storms by. "Whoa-"

"Maka?"

"I'm fine," she says, voice tight. She's fine. _Really._ Ox just excels at everything - and getting under her skin is definitely in his repertoire of special skills. "Just getting another drink," she calls over her shoulder, and Kid makes to go after her but his wife catches his shoulder.

"Let her go," Liz mumbles, and Maka only beelines more quickly for the refreshments. "Girl's gotta get her drink on."

It's exactly what she needs. With another glass of wine nestled lovingly in her hands, Maka sighs deeply and lets the buzzing warmth of the alcohol overtake rational thought.

Ah. _That's it._

The obsession with her relationships pisses her off. Liz teases her about it. Kid sends her knowing, secret smiles every time Soul walks into a room. Motherfucking Ox Ford uses her roommate's name like a secret weapon against her. And why? What do they have to gain from picking at her open wounds?

Because of course she loves Soul. It's not a secret, and she's never pretended like it was. Love doesn't have to be romantically coded, and he's been such a constant in her life that it would be ridiculous to assume otherwise. And she'd been so happy for so long with just that, the knowledge that was was special to her and she to him - right up until the cusp of this reunion, when everything started to change and the feelings she'd buried deeper began swimming up to the light.

Of course she loves Soul. _Of course._

But it's nobody's business but her own. And maybe his, a little, because she's guilty of harboring some less-than-platonic thoughts over her boy, but that's beside the point - it's none of Kid or Liz's business. It's none of Blair's, despite her good intentions. And it's certainly none of Ox's business, especially if he intends to use it against her. Her feelings are hers and hers alone, and if she wants to make them public, well, it's her place to say, not anybody else's. Can't they just let her be? Can't they just let her fall back into a comfortable routine, where she doesn't overthink every delicious quirk of Soul's lips and wonder what it might be like to kiss him again?

 _Bad._ Maka locks the thought away tight. He doesn't want to kiss her, after all. It had been a mistake. He promised her that. And Maka was working hard at being okay with that, knowing that he'll never want to be with her the way she thinks she might like to be with him. What they have already is good enough. It's more than good enough, and if she can still hold his hand and share takeout with him and lean on him in her times of need, well, how can she ask for anything more? He's already given her so much; he's her best friend, for goodness' sake. He lives with her. He holds her hair when she's hungover and praying to the porcelain throne.

Maka takes another long sip of wine. It doesn't solve anything, just kind of fills her chest with a ballooning warmth, threatening to pop. Stupidly, she takes another long slurp and wonders why it's not deflating.

And as if on cue, she feels a hand on her elbow, easing the glass from her lips. She doesn't need to look to know who it is.

"Easy, tiger," he says gently. "Follow it up with some water. We've only been here for an hour."

He's the last person she wants to see right now. And in front of everyone else, too; there are eyes everywhere, overanalyzing the way he peels the glass from her fingers and sets it down on a nearby table. It's stupid; don't they know that it's _her job_ to read too deeply into Soul's quiet attentiveness?

"I'm just tipsy," she says stubbornly. "Give me back my drink, Soul, and go back to posing against the wall."

He chuffs. "You noticed?"

"And you say _I'm_ the model."

"I just don't think you'll be happy tomorrow if you drink yourself into a stupor tonight. Kind of thought you were looking forward to this shindig. Thought you might want to remember it for later," he suggests, shrugging, sliding his hands back into his pockets. "And I would kind of rather you not drunk-stumble all over my feet tonight in those heels. I like my toes."

"They're fine, I guess."

"They're a part of my body, and therefore don't deserve to be stomped on."

She pouts. He smiles for the first time since they've walked in and nudges her shoulder. "I'm a great dancer," she says, throat still weirdly tight, face warm. "When are you going to dance with me, Soul?"

If the staring burns her through the alcohol, it must melt him Soul in his soberness down to ash. He shrugs, shoulders sloping. "Later," he says vaguely, and Maka reads a deafening " _when there are fewer people around"_ between the lines. Which is weirdly okay with her, for once, if only because she'll feel less inclined to put on a show for her old peers. She doesn't have to prove anything, fuck it all.

She sighs. Closes her eyes and tries to drown out thoughts of Ox's smug face. Sighs again when it doesn't really work. "I wish he wasn't here."

"Ox?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"I have eyes, Maka. Saw you about ready to tell him off. What'd he do to get under your skin?"

Like she can tell him the truth. "Oh, you know. He was himself. Have you see Tsubaki?"

Soul grimaces. As if his expression isn't telling enough, he continues, expression tight. "Uh, bathroom. With Blake."

" _No."_

"I decided hiding out by the urinals wasn't as good of a plan as I thought, so here I am. Congrats. Now you're stuck with me," he says, almost nervously, shifting his weight noticeably from foot to foot. There are notes of age-old self depreciation in the depth of his voice, but Maka choses not to interrupt and lets him continue. "I heard there's going to be a slideshow. Can't wait to point you out in all of the pictures and laugh at your brace face from Freshman year."

Her face goes hot(ter) and she gasps, stomping a foot down in retaliation. "Hey! It was worth it, my smile is impeccable now!"

Soul grins. "Sure thing."

"In that case, I can't wait to point out every picture of you in middle school. You know. With the _eyeliner._ "

Just as quickly as his smile came it's vanished, and Soul flushes instead. "Ugh," he groans, and Maka giggles and pokes a finger into his ribs playfully. He jerks, scooting away from her and frowning. "Hey, no! Listen, it was the mid 2000's, everyone dressed like that-"

"-Maybe if you were in an emo band," Maka cuts him off.

He withers. "It was the style. I was _cool._ "

"Wes has a whole album on Facebook that _begs_ to differ."

A nearby laugh jolts them out of their private little world, and then Hiro is near, smiling, looking even taller and _prettier_ than she remembers. Perhaps it's the razor-sharp winged eyeliner that gives him that regal air about him. Maybe it's the fact that he no longer has an overzealous older boyfriend leading him around and getting the poor guy into trouble. Regardless, there's a certain knowing glint in his eye that unnerves her, and Maka sobers from her own laughter quickly.

As always, though, Soul beats her to the scowling. "What's so funny?" he asks, pouting.

Hiro holds up his hands in defense. "Oh, no! It's just- it's refreshing to hear you two go at it again. It's nice to see that some things never change."

Soul rolls his eyes, but Maka still has more to say. "What do you mean _some things never change?_ "

He shrugs, looking impressive and lovely in royal blue. "Nothing," he starts, innocently enough, but there's always a catch and Maka can practically feel it dangling between them like a paperweight. "Well, it's just… you know. High school sweethearts don't normally last-"

Balking, Maka blurts, "We're not _sweethearts._ "

Hiro blinks. "Didn't you two come together?"

"I- yes, and? He's my roommate!" she says, gesturing wildly at said roomie. For his part, Soul does a spectacular job of looking uninterested, and something drops in her chest, sharp and hot, singeing its way down until it explodes like fireworks in her gut.

"Oh," Hiro says, glancing between them. "I just assumed-"

"We're _friends._ We've always been friends."

Soul remains quiet. His silence is telling, and the fanfare within her simmers to an uncomfortable flare of grief. His discomfort is practically palpable, and in the moment Maka hates herself for putting him in such a blinding spotlight.

With an apologetic smile, Hiro shrugs his shoulders. "Sorry," he says. "I guess with everyone else getting married, I kind of jumped the gun. I still think it's nice that you two are so close. I wish I had kept in touch with any of my childhood pals. It's endearing!"

 _Endearing._ If only he knew the half of it. Maka tries to force a smile, but her throat is tight and Soul's slouching back, reaching for her glass of wine. Putting on a brave face and pretending like everything is still normal between them is exhausting. Days ago, Soul had kissed her and promised to never do it again. Hours ago, Soul had looked at her as if she was pretty, almost desirable, and it had taken everything in her to not act on impulse and fracture their recently mended friendship.

"Everyone is getting married?" Soul asks, finally piping up. His knuckles brush against hers and send little tingles up her arm.

"Kid and his wife. Anya, Meme and Tsugumi are together now, you know, and I-"

"You?" she squeaks. Even _Hiro?_

He smiles bashfully and wiggles his ring finger. Sure enough, there's a gold band, glittering and vibrant. What a pointless little trinket rings are. She wonders what it's like, trusting someone with your hand, your life. Wonders what it's like to vow faithfulness on a piece of jewelry, something so expensive and delicate. Loyalty should never be bound to malleable metal, she thinks. A ring on his finger certainly hadn't stopped her father from cheating relentlessly on her wayward mother.

But with wine brain, everything's a lot less clearcut. Her mind inevitably produces images of Soul with a gold band around his ring finger, in the very same suit, hair a little longer, a little messier, as he offers her the same crooked grin he's worn for years. The one reserved for her and only her, three parts secret and two parts a curious, warm something _else_.

Cue blushing. Stupid girl. Maka swallows and tries to look congratulatory. "You're engaged?"

"I am!" Hiro says, beaming.

Soul shifts beside her and their knuckles touch again, just long enough to make her pulse itch. Maka grasps for him and he melts into the spaces between her fingers, lacing them tight. She wonders if he knows it's for support, for solidarity, to feel a little less alone and not because she wants to embarrass him further. Touching him is just part of who she is now - she is Maka, half of a soul, half of a person, and wholly stained by him.

"Congrats," he ends up grunting, and Maka feels him squeeze her hand in response to her wordless question. "When's the big day?"

.

The wine was probably a bad idea.

Under Soul's watch, Maka nervously sips from Liz's glass until things are a little more hazy. It's dumb, relying on alcohol to get her through a night of nostalgia and celebration, but Soul's a little too hot in his suit and she doesn't really know how to deal with wanting to bite his neck and put a damn ring on his finger.

It doesn't make sense. As a teenager, Maka had vowed to never get married; watching her parents split did a number on her conception of holy matrimony and overall respect for the male gender. And for the longest time, Maka had been so comfortable being alone, simply _being_ with Soul, existing in the same space without sullying things with _feelings_ and _attraction_. Attraction hadn't even been a thing for her through most of her teen years. Sans a few choice moments with him - _prom_ comes to mind, among few others - she had been so sure she didn't worry and fuss over the same things Tsubaki and Liz did.

But now she knows what his lips feel like. Now she knows what it feels like to worry he might not want her in the same way she might want him. How can she ever go back to the way things were if she can't keep her head on her shoulders and out of the clouds?

The wine only makes things worse. Everything's a little fuzzier, a little warmer. Soul's hand is so sturdy in hers, fingers laced tight. Every time he sips from his drink, his Adam's apple bobs and it's so damn distracting. She wants to press her fingers to his throat and feel him swallow, feel him vibrate as he speaks. She wants to drown in the depth and gravel of his voice, wants to bathe in it and emerge a new, shiny Maka, one who knows what she wants and is brave enough to own up to it.

Isn't that who she is, anyway? Isn't she Maka the brave, Maka the tenacious? She doesn't know anymore. Wine is nice but it makes focusing on any one thing harder and her head threatens to float off of her shoulders and into the pulsing beat of Cascada. Perhaps glass number three had been a mistake. Perhaps holding Soul's hand and swinging her arms to the tune of the song is the greatest idea she's had all night, because he keeps sending her amused little grins, playing along with her whims all the same.

"I can't believe they're playing this song," he mutters, just a breath too close to her ear. Maka can't repress her shiver. "2006 is back."

Maka purses her lips. "It _is_ a class reunion."

He snorts, shakes his head, and doesn't once try to still their hands. What a good friend he is. How endearing of him to tag along with his good friend Maka. What a _pal._

A pal that won't kiss her. _Selfish._ He's selfish, holding something so precious out of her reach.

 _She's_ selfish for wanting it. Soul can make his own decisions. Soul can want whatever he wants, _her_ included. Shut up, booze. Shut up, world. Let her melt into his hands and fall asleep and wake up a little more normal.

"Christ," Soul mutters. Maka perks up, blinking to alertness. "Blake's on his way over here."

Owlishly, she peers over her shoulder. No sign of bright blue hair. "Is that a bad thing?" she asks, teetering on her toes. "He's your friend, and he came with us-"

" _Friend_ is a loose term," Soul says stiffly. His voice sounds weirdly tight. With a clearer head and her normal brain, she might be able to decipher it, but for now it's lost in this odd puddle of _Soul_. "Wanna dance?"

She whips her head around. "Dance?"

He grunts again and walks forward, giving her hand a tug. "Yeah. With me. You know, like I promised you?"

"Now?"

A spikey, over-gelled head of blue clears the crowd like a shark's fin. Soul tugs her along once more and clears his throat, muttering, "Yeah," as he maneuvers his way through the dance floor. She stumbles after him, heels clicking nosily, and before she knows it he's spun her around to face him, face suspiciously pink.

Maybe he's had too much wine as well. "Dance?" she asks again.

Cascada has morphed into a slowjam. Couples move closer. Maka wobbles on her heels and Soul's hands find her shoulders to steady her. Just where she needs, like always - the burning in the pit of her gut becomes an inferno, and without her consent, her arms are linking around his neck and she's nestling her face against his chest. Shoot, _shoot_ \- but he's warm, and he's sturdy, and her knees are useless.

Maka tries to tell herself it's not an excuse to be close to him but she knows it's a lie.

Soul laughs and his chest rumbles beneath her cheek. His hands find her waist, held safely a good distance from her hips (and her ass, _hmph_ ) and even out her motions, leading her into a slow, shifting sway. It's probably some semblance of a dance. Soul would know; he was bred with a silver spoon in his mouth and rhythm in his bones. She's only good for memorizing information and spitting back an impressive number of syllables in one sentence. Still, it feels good, something like a dance, and her feet haven't found his toes yet, so this is probably okay.

"Can't spin you like this," Soul mumbles.

She smiles, although he can't see it. "I'd probably twirl into Liz and send Kid into a fit."

He snorts. "Probably," he says, tucking his chin over her head comfortably. And ah, he smells so nice, like just a hint of expensive cologne and aftershave. As if her senses aren't befuddled enough as it is. Stupid Soul. "You never were the picture of grace, Albarn."

Maka huffs. Conversation is hard. Her tongue feels thick and floppy, and pronunciation is more difficult than it should be. She wants to convey to him how very badly she wants him to spin her around - like _a princess_ , as he'd said days ago - but she's afraid to say much of anything, lest she admit something she shouldn't. Still, it's nice to be this close to him, even if it's just under the facade of dancing, and his arms are so firm around her.

Wine brain wishes his hands were lower. Wine brain wants a lot of things that it probably shouldn't.

Instead, she mumbles, "Meanie," into his suit jacket, nearly inaudible beneath layers of fabric and pinstripes. Childishly, she squeezes herself to him that much tighter, wanting him closer, still, even as the ghost of her guilt looms over her shoulder. "I'm a dancing queen."

"Young and sweet, a little older than seventeen…"

"Mmh," she grunts, squirming against him. He leans back, and Maka tips her head to press her chin against his collarbone. Ah, there he is. Has he always been this tall? Maybe. His lips are a little too close to her face for comfort. Pretty, distracting lips, and a tongue that's just as interesting to boot. _Shut it down, Albarn._ "Soul."

"Hey."

"Is this waltzing?"

"Not even close."

Maka wills her feet to cooperate. Her hands slip to his shoulders and she squeezes them, determined. "Show me how?"

"You sure you'll be able to handle it this time?"

She pouts, muttering, "I'm a big girl now."

Soul quirks a brow. "You're _something,_ alright," he says, without a touch of malice, and slips one hand from his waist to take her fingers into his. And _ah,_ this position is familiar - he's tried to teach her to waltz hundreds of times, all to varying degrees of success. The routine should be comforting, should be normalizing. She's been drunk in his hands before and nothing has come of it. Soul has lead her through more dances than she can count on one hand, but they're teetering on the cusp of _something_ and Maka's afraid, not for the first time, that it might break them.

The wine makes her stupidly emotional. Maka swallows thickly. How can she ever forgive herself for changing things? For acting as the catalyst to the demise of the greatest thing she's ever been a part of? How, after all of these years and so much turmoil, can she still be her father's daughter through and through?

His stare is a laser, and she's melting fast. "Maka?"

She shakes her head, sniffling. "You're a good dancer, Soul."

"Uh," he blurts, fretting predictably. He pauses his step and she stumbles. "Do you want to sit down?"

"No, I _just-_ -" she snivels, slipping her hand from his shoulder to scrub at her face, her nose. "- I really like dancing with you, Soul. It makes me happy. I don't want to ever stop."

His expression irons out, only slightly. "Do you need something to drink?"

Fuck it. "Wine?"

" _Water,"_ Soul insists. "More _water,_ for sure. C'mon. Maybe some cake, too."

Maybe he knows best. He's her personal caretaker, after all. Who else but Soul would look out for her so selflessly? He's broader than ever as he leads her off the dance floor, and Maka is tethered to him like a string pulled taut. Inevitably, something's bound to snap, and Maka's not sure who will be around after the smoke has cleared.

Because she'll still love him no matter what. She just doesn't know if she can quiet the part of her that calls for his heart. _Stupid._ The water's probably a good idea.

Soul knows best, after all. Loyal Soul only wants to make her happy and keep her safe.


	8. part eight

**PART 8**

**SOUL**

.

Before it's even begun, Soul knows the slideshow is going to be a shitshow.

Teenage Soul was a mess. There's no other way to put it; teenage Soul skipped classes and sated his anxiety with pot instead of talking to anyone about getting medicated. More than that, teenage Soul was merely teenage Maka's shadow - even more than adult Soul is now - and in light of recent events, he's not really sure how walking down that particular path of memory lane will go down. Especially with drunk Maka pressing her cheek on his shoulder and innocently nibbling at a slice of cake.

Leaning on Maka had been routine for him for a very long time. She was his comfort blanket, his best friend, his lifeline - and to everyone around them, it must've looked a little desperate, a little pathetic. Sometimes he thinks he was; Maka had been everything to him for so very long, all through middle school, right up until her parents had split and suddenly she needed his support, too. From there, they'd been inseparable - _SoulandMaka, MakaandSoul_ \- and the rest is history. They've grown up together. They've grown up leaning on each other, through thick and thin, and he's not sure how Maka will take reliving such facts.

_I really like dancing with you, Soul. It makes me happy. I don't ever want to stop._

How can she say things like that and not expect him to fall for her? How can she validate him like that - let him know that she needs him, too, maybe even as much as he needs her - and not expect him to fall at her feet? She's merciless. Green eyes will be his undoing. He will forever be half a man, half a person, without dewy green eyes and her hand in his.

He's not that kid anymore. He's not _helpless,_ not useless without a hearty dose of Maka as a morning pick-me-up. Soul has a band, has friends and interests and ways to vent his frustrations and creativity. He has a nearly famous brother and prim, expectant parents and a pretty decent head on his shoulders. He has Maka, still, and certainly needs her, always - but in different ways, he thinks. Less dependant ways. More for companionship, completeness. He wants to wake up for years to her sleepy face, her cute button nose. He wants to be around when she grows old but her spirit still sings youth.

He wants to be with her always. And if she's okay with that, great, he'll take her any way he can have her, friendship included. He can keep being her best friend, her roommate, no matter how much he maybe-kinda-sorta is in love with her. No matter how often he has to squash the blooming in his chest when she stretches and lets out a contented little sigh.

And it's often. Soul runs his fingers through her hair as she nestles her cheek further against his shoulder. "It's warm."

"That's the alcohol," he says, distracted by the way she sounds when she yawns. Soul tries to pay attention to Ox and Harvar struggling to set up the slideshow, but he ends up helping Maka sit up straight and nudging her cup of water closer. She pouts, but it's for the best, and she relents under his stern gaze. "That'll help."

She pouts childishly over the rim of the plastic cup. "You're not my papa."

"Pfff. Might as well be."

Water dribbles over her chin. Mindlessly, he reaches to wipe the mess for her, and she freezes, eyes big and so goddamn warm. There are worlds in those wide eyes of hers, colors that haven't yet been named. He flinches back, her lipstick smudged on his thumb, and mutters an apology.

Maka bites her lip. "I made a mess, huh?"

Think of anything but her mouth. _Anything_ else. "Dress you up and can't take you out anywhere," he says, staring very pointedly over her head, watching Ox shuffle through his notecards and straighten his tie.

_Maka_ should be up there, he thinks. Maka should be the one gathering everyone together to relive their teenage successes and memories. But instead, she's by his side, more than a little drunk off of the wine, whittling her way through a slice of cake with smudged lipstick and damp eyes. He can't make heads or tails of it. Is she sad? Is she disappointed? Or is she just happy to be here, existing, near him? He can't tell. His Maka reading skills are elementary level when alcohol comes into the equation. He cannot account for the booze making her brain slow.

Liz drops into the seat to his left and shoots him a concerned look. "How's it going?"

Soul glances at Maka again. "Fine," he answers thinly, anxiety drumming in his chest where his heart is supposed to be. This slideshow feels like a swan song, the looming catalyst, and he's unsure where it's going to lead them. Will Maka take nicely to his clinginess of old? Or is she old enough now to see how unhealthy he'd once been and distance herself, especially in light of _that night_ and _that kiss?_

Kid, ever the faithful shadow, sits primly by Liz's side and folds a napkin onto his lap without missing a beat. "Has she had too much to drink?"

"No," Maka says around a fork full of cake.

Soul mouths ' _yes'_ while she goes in for another gulp of water.

"Ah, I see," Kid says wisely. Before long, he's begun cutting his cake into equal pieces, and Liz idly snags a cube of dessert and plops it into her mouth. "Has anyone seen Tsubaki?"

Liz snorts, then licks the frosting from her finger. "Don't ask."

"Think I saw her grinding with Blake fifteen minutes ago," Soul offers. Kid sits taller and cranes his neck around. Whatever he sees must confirm his suspicions, because he blanches noticeably and sinks back down in his seat, impeccable posture sagging.

Poor guy. There are certain things not meant for the human eye, and Blake grinding on their dear friend Tsubaki is one of them. But she seems to be enjoying herself, and had been so flushed and giggly when Soul had run into them in the bathroom an hour ago, so he should probably hold his tongue. Besides, after letting it slip to Blake what's really been going on with Maka, it's probably for the best that he's suitably distracted for the evening. His drummer means well, but tends to have a big mouth, and he'd rather Maka _not_ overhear some of the truths he's spilled.

"They still at it?"

"I went to kindergarten with her," Kid says mournfully.

Christ. Soul can only imagine the damage. He slides Maka's half-finished glass of wine across the table. "Drink up, Kid."

"Mine!" Maka gasps, reaching out with grabby hands. Wisely, Liz downs the rest of the glass before World War Wine can break out, and Maka deflates, sinking back into her seat with a pout. Soul has half a mind to wipe her smudged lipstick but resists, barely, instead electing to gesture vaguely at his own mouth in an attempt to inspire her to do the same.

It works halfway. Maka gropes for a napkin and dabs at her damp chin.

Definitely no more wine for her, no matter how cute booze-brained Maka is. Poor thing is like a clumsy doe, wobbling around and sipping messily at her water.

"Is this thing on?" Ox asks. Then taps the microphone. Soul winces. "Ah! It is. Good. Stop the music!"

"Please don't stop the music," Maka pipes up, and Soul can't smother his grin. Surprising, coming from the girl who can't tell Rihanna from Beyoncé. She beams at him, proud of her lyrical reference, and he runs his fingers through her hair to keep himself from doing something stupid, like planting a kiss on her flushed cheek.

The dance floor evacuates, and before long their table is filled, Blake clattering down into the seat beside Maka and Tsubaki quietly finishing their circle, looking pink and sincerely pleased.

Ignoring Ox's speech is easy when Blake is seated so close to an intoxicated Maka. It's not that he doesn't trust his best friend around her, but - okay, he doesn't trust his best friend's big mouth for a second, and a bro's honor only goes so far when Maka and Blake are in such direct vicinity of one another. Like fire and gasoline, they tend to feed off of one another, and with Blake's new knowledge and Maka's woozy brain - well, disaster is imminent.

"Sup, lovebird?"

Right. Commence wincing. Soul nudges her shoulder and leans over to mumble in her ear, "Switch spots with me?"

She blinks rapidly, glancing between the grinning blue buffoon and Soul, eyes wide. "What's wrong with your seat?" she asks, still sluggish, and dammit all, there's a smidgen of frosting on her lower lip and he can't look away.

"Blake's a nosy menace," he grunts.

Said menace grins gleefully. "Hey, bro's honor! I'll be good. Pass the cake though, Maka. Share the wealth."

.

He sort of hates it when he's right.

At first, the slideshow is harmless fun. Maka gasps, _oohs_ and _ahhs_ at particular memories - things like their freshman semiformal, their varsity lacrosse team in matching jackets, _math_ team - and leans her head on his shoulder as it stretches on and on. It's a little fun for him, too, in a nostalgic sort of way, because Maka had been such a bright member of their school's community, working tirelessly to earn her spot as vice president of the student council, tutoring elementary school students and just being generally friendly and admirable. It brings a warmth to his chest, feeling her giggle beside him, so delightfully placated with her wine-brain and decimated plate of cake.

And then he comes into the picture. Suddenly, the focus is less on Maka's achievements and more on spotting Soul in the background, always lingering by, never far from his other half. There are other students, of course, but he doesn't give them any attention. How can he, when he's so busy remembering how very attached to her hip he'd been? And, christ, had he always looked at her like that, with those stupid lovesick eyes?

She's unnervingly quiet, now. But her cheek's still mashed against his arm, so he can't move; he's trapped, forced to relive teenhood memories and really take a second look at their relationship. Really take a look at the way _he looked at her all of the time_ , good _god._

Maka is a delight in formal wear. She's never sturdy in heels, but always lovely in a dress, always pretty, and prom had been no exception. Maka with a wrist corsage and flowers in her hair will always play at his heartstrings like a harp, but seeing his hand on her waist and half-grinning nervously at the camera really puts things into perspective for him. It's easy to translate Maka in rosy pink to Maka in frilly white, to change her corsage into a bouquet. She looks so damn happy in the picture, grinning widely, eyes bright, and god, does he want to make her feel like that all of the time. God, does he want to spend every day of his life with that smile, that sunshine.

He feels sort of bad for blaming this whole love epiphany on Liz and her ribbing. Loving Maka isn't a new thing. It's been a forever thing, something he's kept tucked away from himself for longer than he cares to admit. Only now, it seems, it's ready to burn over and take flame to everything, whether he's ready or not.

Maka sighs beside him. Soul manages to sneak a peek, and her eyes are glittery, lashes damp. Sputtering, he blurts, "Maka?"

Clumsily, she rubs at her face, and oh, her mascara's damp, too. Words escape her, and Soul decides she's had entirely too much alcohol for the night, and maybe taking her home is the best plan of action. Her makeup is smudged anyway, and proud, sober Maka would hate for Ox Ford to see her looking sloppy and unkempt.

Not that his decision is at all inspired by his own ballooning urge to run away, of course. It's purely for her benefit. Get Maka out of a potentially reputation-damaging situation and preserve her ever bruising ego.

"Hey," he says gently, nudging her. "Hey, c'mon. I'm ready to go."

He expects more of a fight, but Maka nods and stares very pointedly at her empty plate. Scooting back, Soul hops up just to pull her seat out for her and offer her a steadying hand. She's wobbly on her feet, ankles teetering dangerously, but finds her center eventually and sags against him. Part of him isn't surprised; alcohol always hits her hard, and it always makes her so sleepy after she's had her initial, giggly fun. Of course, her apparent need to lean on him at all times both patches his heart together and threatens to steal his breath, and he sort of wishes he were bolder, were brave enough to press a kiss to her hair, to just spit out the words he's been burning to say for so long.

No matter. An arm around her is a necessary precaution to keep her upright, and Soul only blushes a little bit beneath Liz's razor-sharp stare. "Maka's tired," he says, as if it is obvious. "We're gonna head back while everyone's still distracted."

"Maka's a little more than tired," Liz says, raising a brow. "Get some more water in her before she heads to bed."

"Duh. You guys gonna make it back okay?"

Liz nods sleepily, balancing her chin on her hand, elbow resting impolitely on the table. A throwback slideshow might be fun for those in the graduating class, but for Liz, who knows a whole four alumni, it's gotta be a bit bland. "Kid's sober, we'll be fine to drive. Have a good night."

He offers a crooked grin. "Hang in there. Home stretch."

She sighs, sinking forward, shoulders slouching. "Hope so."

.

"Sorry," Maka says miserably. For the fifth time. " _Sorry."_

The traffic light flashes red, and Soul watches the crosswalk sign for the okay to cross. What was once a lovely, delicate braid has become a tangled mess beneath his hand, and he can't keep himself from running his fingers through her hair as Maka sniffles into the sleeve of his jacket. If he was Wes, he might be a bit more disturbed at the increasingly snotty state of his suit, but he's not, so he doesn't think anything of it and instead pulls her a little closer.

He's really no good when it comes to tears. One would think after nursing Maka through her parent's divorce that he'd be pretty alright when it came to whimpering and sniffles, but he's terrible. As if he doesn't already have a hard enough time finding the right thing to say, now there are messy things like emotions and tears and _Maka's so sad she can't keep her mucus contained_ getting in the way. It's not a good feeling. Watching Maka wretchedly scrub at her face and draw in sharp, trembling breaths is never an easy thing for him to do. It makes him feel lousy. Useless boy, incapable of making her happy.

"Sorry," she whimpers again.

It's like the only thing she can do is apologize and for the life of him, he can't understand why. What does she have to be so sorry about? Being steller, even at sixteen, seventeen, eighteen? For being a role model to younger students? For stealing his entire heart?

Wisely, he keeps quiet. That's never been her fault. No error on her part there - just his, being weak and getting caught up in her shine.

"Shhh. It's fine."

She makes a little muffled whine and presses a hand to her face. The sign flashes white, little pedestrian man striding forward, and Soul leads her through the crosswalk, careful of her wobbling ankles. Together, they stumble their way across the street, down the sidewalk and up their apartment steps, alternating between shushing one another and blotting Maka's tears with Soul's sleeves.

"Oh _no,_ " Maka says, so very defeated. She looks small for a moment, tinier than ever, as Soul wrestles with maneuvering their key into the lock. "I got eyeliner on your shirt."

"Dry Cleaners exist for a reason."

Maka exhales, long and defeated. "But expensive," she blurts, fingers tucking into the cusp of his pocket. It's as adorable as it is heartwarming, and Soul's completely unprepared to deal with such a thoughtful tether.

.

She's not wearing a bra.

It should not catch him so off guard. In that dress, he would know if she was wearing some sort of underwear besides panties. It dips low in the front, a dramatic, elegant V that cuts well beyond the curves of her breasts, and yet Soul had still been blissfully ignorant, somehow, of Maka's tits. She's small enough to go without. She's perky enough to always go without, really, and he'd been on red alert, trying to keep himself from staring at the peeks of skin she'd allowed tonight, but goddamn, the dress splits further as she tries to wiggle her way out of it and ah, goodness, that's definitely the beginning of a nipple.

Cool guys don't take advantage.

Soul tentatively takes a step closer, fists clenched. "... Need help?"

The way she's undressing isn't even a little bit sexy. Maybe if the dress was pooling around her hips, or if she was shedding the fabric like a second skin - but her coordination is all off, as is her center of balance, and she's more like a clumsy toddler than anything else. So no, she's not peeling off her clothes seductively, isn't sober, but he's still hard and sort of hates himself for it.

Where is that self control he'd so prided himself on? Where has it gone? Where is the boy who felt sexual attraction so rarely?

A hint of nipple is all it takes to crumble his walls, apparently. Soul stares at her bare toes instead.

"No," Maka says stubbornly. Huffs. Grunts. Tries to wrestle her way out of the garment with a bent elbow and her dress askew. Soul peeks and the whole goddamn rosy bud is giving him a grand hello. _Christ on a stick._ "Nnnnghh-"

Right. Okay. Moaning needs to stop right about now. Soul shuffles over and takes her wrists into his hands. "Easy, tiger."

Maka throws her head back and _whines._ "Heeeeelp!"

He might laugh if he wasn't so uncomfortable. Well, this is the life he lives. This is the role best friends play, helping their drunk roomies out of uncomfortable dresses and into PJs. Despite the discomfort, he likes that she trusts him so fundamentally; there's not another man alive Maka Albarn would feel safe enough around to undress before, and Soul decides to focus on that warmth in his chest instead of the way her breath hitches as his hands slip around her back.

The metal of her zipper is cool, and he pulls it slowly, slowly, careful of any stray blonde hairs accidentally catching as the teeth split. He has half a mind to hook his chin over her shoulder, lean over and watch the way her pale back glows in the light. Acting upon it would be suicide; he resists, thinking of puppies and Blake grinding on Tsu - anything else to keep his hands steady and mind out of the gutter. Forcing a kiss on her once is bad enough; he's not worthy of her trust, and he'll be damned if he tarnishes their special _something_ ever again.

It's a little funny, undressing his best friend. He's seen her thousands of times, in various states of dress - nightgowns, sports bras, oversized tees, _silhouetted through a shower curtain_ \- but never downright naked. Or almost naked, anyway, sans a pair of lacy red panties. Drunk Maka doesn't even think to cover herself, just rubs her eyes and yawns, cheeks pink with a fine blend of intoxication and embarrassment, perhaps. But she seems to have no qualms being naked in front of him, and he's not sure what to make of it. On one hand, it's endearing, and a little exciting, being allowed her while she's so vulnerable - and on the other, it probably means she doesn't consider him anything but a brother. Or family, at least. Certainly never in a sexual manner.

Which is a boner kill. A gift in disguise, though. He shouldn't be rocking a hard-on when she's so bleary eyed anyway.

"Can I have one of your shirts?" Maka asks. Her hands slip from her face to cup her breasts, as if just realizing she's exposed.

He snorts. "You have your own clothes, Maka."

"Yours are soft and smell like you."

What a strange thing for his darling sis to say. Ah, well, after putting her through that train wreck of a memory lane, it's the least he can do. Fishing one out of her dresser takes no time at all; she's hoarded at least four of his old tees, the filthy little thief, and he tosses it to her underhand. With much squirming, Maka's head pops out from the neck hole and she shoves her arms through the sleeves.

Goodbye, nipples. It's probably (definitely) for the best. He'll be seeing them in his dreams anyway, he suspects.

"I'm going to get you some more water," he says, tugging at his tie. A glance at Maka tells him she's staring at him, eyes big and zeroed in on his neck, lip sucked beneath her teeth. She's so very distracted by it, weirdly so, and Soul loosens the fancy, proper little noose around his neck and Maka's shoulders deflate. "Maka?"

She blinks sluggishly. There's still patches of smudged eyeliner below her lashes. "Mmm?"

"Water," he repeats. "Yeah?"

"Oh," Maka says, blinking again. Her mattress squeaks as she flops back, burrowing her way between blankets and sheets and stuffed animals. Cute. What's not cute is the way she still sniffles, the way her eyes still mist over when she pokes her head out of the pile, watching him as he turns to face the door. "Noooo, I don't wanna have'ta pee."

"You're drunk."

There's a soft whine humming from the blankets, and then, "Stay?"

Something rumbles in his chest, both deeply pleased and supremely terrified. All attempts at squashing are unsuccessful, and Soul fiddles with his loosened tie instead of facing the oncoming change head on. "Shouldn't," he says quietly.

He should not. This whole night has been a journey for the both of them, and he still has the taste of prom on his lips, of spinning her around and watching her hair fan out all around her like a halo. Maka watches him with those boundless eyes, blinking slowly, sluggishly, and it's impossible for him to forget their reality; take away the wine, and Maka would not be so keen to have him in her bed. Especially while she's pantless. _Especially_ so soon after seeing her topless.

Drunken permission is not really permission at all.

"Please?"

"You're a bed hog."

Somehow her hands have slipped through the tangle of her bedding, and Maka reaches for him, expression murky in the low light. " _Please?"_

The pull is magnetic. It's not like they haven't shared a bed before - and even just a few nights ago, even after everything began changing, they'd coexisted between the sheets together. But this is different. It feels different, like the air has changed between them, somehow, in the time that they'd spent corralled with their old classmates and teenage memories. With everything that's happened in the past few weeks, it's impossible for him not to feel weird about this - because, for so long, Maka had been an unquestioned entity, half of his heart, a hand to hold without looking too deeply into the connection. She simply _was,_ just another part of his life. Part of him wishes he'd never sat and thought on it, never tried to put a name to the warm floating in his chest that comes with Maka's sleepy smile.

She doesn't smile like that anymore. Not since he had that night with Chloe-Camille-What's Her Face, anyway. Maka doesn't smile quite the same, never lets it reach her eyes. Even now, with wine influencing her, she's still not as warm, even as her knobby knees bump his legs and she peeks up at him through the mountain of blankets.

His chest hurts. She's _so fucking cute._

"Sorry," she whispers, again, little fingers poking through the layers between them to find his hands. Her nails brush over his knuckles and he clasps hands with her out of reflex. "About tonight. You d'dn't really wanna go, 'nd then I-"

"It was fine."

Her chin hooks over the blanket and she presses her lips together. Even in this lighting, with her blinking alarm clock the only true illumination, he can still see her flushed cheeks, pinker than they have any right to be. "Was not," she huffs. "You left early. You d'dn't even wanna _go_."

Squeezing her hand in hers, he sighs and says, "But you did. Really, Maka, it's fine. Sorry I let you drink too much. Should've been watching out for you instead of hiding by the urinals."

"Buuut. _But_."

"I'm the one who should be apologizing to you, _nerd_ ," he admits, and oh, that little bite of her lip should not pull something in his chest so deeply. "I'm the one who made you leave. I'm the one who let you take on Ox alone. And 'm supposed to be your best friend. Kind of supposed to be back up and give him resting bitch face while you tell him off in geekspeak."

The lip biting has become full blown nibbling, and count him distracted. Finally, she presses her lips together and sighs, " _Best friend."_

Not that he's been acting like it very often, but he still likes to think of himself as such. If she'll let him, anyway. He wouldn't blame her if she decided to relieve him of his title and seek out a new roommate instead. Maybe someone who won't stare at her mouth like a little creep and can actually get up in the morning without two cups of coffee and a hearty round of blinking back the routine self loathing.

That twitch in her brows has him worried. "Yeah," he blurts mindlessly. "Your, uh, brother. Like you said."

Her ankles are bare and one slips between his. Ah, her legs are soft. Her skin is soft, silky like nothing else. Soul waffles between biting his own lip and throwing himself off the bed. Maka's so touchy when she's drunk. A little cuddle bug, despite everything else.

Her brows crease further and she makes a little huffing sound, displeased, clearly. "Noooo," she whines, and that pulling sensation in his chest shatters. "I d'dn't- 'nt mean that, you know? I just… you're important, Soul. Super important."

"Uh."

"Like- like the most important person I know," she blurts, confession like a freight train, and he's helpless in her warpath. He's nothing more than a witness to her own unraveling; careless wine-brain just lets things slip, sometimes, and who is he to stop her while she's on a roll? "I wish I didn't say that. I didn't mean thaaat. I just… I don't know words, Soul."

"That's not true," he says. "You know lots of words. Big words. You're a walking dictionary. Practically the smartest person I know."

Blushing Maka is cute. Bashful blushing Maka, so very pink, so very precious, pressing her free hand to her face, fingers splayed across the ridge of her nose and over her cheek. "'Fanks," she mumbles, muffled into her palm. Not once does her other hand make any move to depart from his, though. He kind of likes it. He also kind of wants to press his forehead to hers, though, and swallow that thick, confusing haze she's caught in more than anything else. "I ruined things."

She has done no such thing. Ruining things is his job, thank you very much, and he does it with outstanding skill. "You didn't."

"I did. I- I wish you'd kiss me again, Soul," she says miserably. That mistiness is back, green eyes caught in a desperate, flustered fog. "Will you kiss me again?"

"I thought you didn't want me to do that anymore?" Soul asks. Her hand is suddenly a weight in his hand, guilt as thick in his throat as the bubbling nerves. Fucking butterflies have no right fluttering in his chest like it's a field of flowers because _she's drunk_ and _he's not a complete dickhead_ and of course he can't kiss her again.

He's thought about kissing her hundreds of times. In the past few weeks, sure, the urge has been particularly more potent, but he'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it before, too. Innocent kisses, on her grinning face or on the back of her palm. Chaste places. Places strictly platonic, places that could maybe, probably be allowed, should he choose to put himself out there. But his brain is mutinous, and with certain other feelings suddenly coming to light, well - the softness of her skin comes to mind again, and Soul burns, burns, _burns._

"Noooo!" His heart nearly leaps out of his body and rockets to the goddamn moon. "You said that. _I_ never said that."

"You- you asked if I thought it would make you happy," he says, grasping for reality. Her hand is the only anchor, and it's warm, fingers laced between his.

She blinks back tears and says, "I just don't- you're so stupid, Soul, I hate you! I didn't- I didn't think you even _liked_ girls, and then you- lipstick-!"

Maka hates him but she wants him to kiss her again. Maka hates him but apparently she really was jealous, and the knowledge makes him both sick with guilt and giddy, because _Maka wants to be the one kissing him._ And none of this should be coming out now, while she's drunk as a skunk and he's cuddled up in her bed, barely dressed, sans for a pair of boxers and his dress socks, but it is, and he really can't make heads or tails of the conversation. Everything he had previously known as true has been thrown through a loop.

Because of course he wants to kiss her, too. He's wanted to kiss her for as long as he can remember. He wants to be with her, however she'll have him.

But maybe not while she's drunk. That's not really permission for anything, other than to make sure she gets home safe and tuck her in.

He smoothes back her bangs and presses his lips solemnly to her forehead in silent promise. She makes a little growling noise, squirming fretfully before melting delightfully against him. It means she has to drop his hand, but it's a price he's willing to pay. Besides, from this position, it's more comfortable to wrap his arms around her and cradle her to his chest.

There's a little moan, aimed at the center of his chest, and he runs his palms down her back. "But I _want_ you to kiss me again," she says, and goodbye, heart, for it has begun an olympic-level decathlon in his chest. "I don't want to kiss anyone else. Ever. E-Even if you- I'm not what you- I'm _small._ "

Making coherent conversation with her will be impossible. He silently berates himself again and inhales deeply through his nose and oh, hm, someone's definitely been nabbing his conditioner. He'll tease her (mercilessly) for it later, when her brain can properly process things. And once they've talked this new development through, too.

"You're so small," he says fondly, hair soft beneath his lips. She whines and squirms, clearly displeased, but he's undeterred. Even the thought of having a chance with her has him on cloud nine. "It's… it's _cute_ , Maka."

"I don't feel cute. I don't like feeling twelve!"

"C'mon, you're not twelve. You still had braces at twelve."

Commence growling. He should not enjoy teasing her so thoroughly. He should be helping lull her to sleep, not pressing all of her buttons - but she's in his arms and her eyelashes aren't nearly as misty on his neck anymore, so it can't be all bad. They've cuddled before, of course, albeit perhaps maybe a bit accidentally and in their sleep, but this is new. And if drunk Maka is really sure about this - if drunk Maka is really, truly speaking for whole Maka - then he can't give her a kiss, not in good spirit, but he can definitely hold her. He can definitely press another chaste kiss to her forehead and begin humming Journey, if that's what it takes to melt her heart.

It placates her so. And god, is she a cozy little snuggle bug, delightfully small enough for him to wrap his arms around and hold close. Something rumbles deeply within him, absurdly pleased.

"I want to kiss you," she says around a yawn. She peeks up at him and her eyes are so damn big.

But he can't. Not yet, anyway, and there's probably a huge, dopey smile on his face but fuck it, he's gonna let himself grin. For the moment, he's not worried about how he might've looked as a teen, desperately grasping at Maka's coattails, or how he's spent the past few weeks thinking of nothing but Maka in Liz's wedding dress, with a glittering, gold ring around her finger. For now, nothing is more important than the way she smiles when he says, "Tomorrow," and allows him to hook a leg around her knee.

_Tomorrow_ for sure. Tomorrow they can talk this through over breakfast, and _tomorrow_ Maka can decide if she really does want to kiss him or not. Because fuck, does he want to kiss her, too. He wants to kiss her always.

She blinks slowly. Eyes slip shut peacefully. "Promise?"

Maka can have anything she wants. Soul wonders if she knows she already has his entire life.

"If you want it, it's yours," he responds, and she exhales, long and satisfied, through her nose. Rest finally overtakes her, and once his heart stops attempting to gallop out of his chest, Soul sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks.


	9. part nine

**PART 9  
MAKA**

.

Sobertown _sucks._

Drunkville had gifted her with _courage_. Drunkville had also made it seem like sleeping in the same bed as Soul was a good idea, despite the latent arousal coiling in her tummy while he'd loosened his tie. Little did she know that was a thing she found sexy. Soul in a tie is decidedly attractive, and this is a known fact - but Soul loosening his tie, Adam's apple bobbing over the collar of his shirt - well, it had done _things_ she had not been prepared for.

And yet she'd still insisted he join her. And yet she'd still soldiered on, spilling her truths carelessly, liquid courage both an enabler and a poison. If only she'd driven through Drunkville and passed soundly into Wasted County - at least that way she might not remember everything in such discouraging clarity.

_I wish you'd kiss me again, Soul._

She might scream if her head wasn't already pounding. Goodbye, safety and normality. Goodbye, the comfort of their home, for she has ruined it all with her big, fat mouth. Clingy Maka can't be happy with having just a piece of Soul; she just has to have all of him, doesn't she?

Maka groans and burrows her face into the curious warmth surrounding her. Mmm. Bed is cozy enough to dull her worries, just for a bit. It almost makes the hangover more bearable. Such warm, soft heat pressed to her cheek is a balm, and- blinking sluggishly, Maka's fingers sift through her off-white sheets and meet bare skin. Ah. And what soft bare skin it is, taut along the interesting shape of shoulderblades, and the arching curve of a spine, down to an elastic waistband…

She realizes, minutes too late, just how she'd fallen asleep. Those are Soul's lips pressed to her temple, aren't they? Christ, and those are his arms around her, too. Maka doesn't feel the silk of her dress riding up her thighs - somewhere along the line, she'd definitely changed clothes, and there's not much of anything covering her legs. Well, aside from Soul's, apparently, tangled up with hers, knees hooked around her shins.

And he's not wearing clothes. Not really, anyway. His hairy legs tickle her sensitive thighs.

It comes back in heated moments, memory of her stare sinking from his throat to his naked chest, down to the trail of faint white hair, leading down to places good roommates don't dream about. She squirms, palms grasping at the sheets, cheek sliding along his collarbone. Oh, from this position, she can feel his heartbeat, such a steady rhythm, heavy in her head. In another world, it might be reassuring, but she is Maka the Selfish, and she does not deserve to wake up in such intimate positions with her babysitter. Not without a hearty helping of Advil, at least.

He mumbles, swallows. Maka feels his hands on her waist, sliding down to cup her hips. It's too much for her heart, and she goes rigid against him, eyes wide as saucers, head pounding.

Because he's Soul, and he's always been a little too aware of her moods, he tangles his fingers in the hem of her shirt and yawns, muttering, "Hey." So freaking casually, too. As if this is completely normal. As if they've woken up like this before, in varying levels of dress, tangled so lovingly. Maka's not even sure where she ends and Soul begins anymore.

It's almost disturbing how badly she wants him to pull the damn shirt off of her and feel his chest against hers. She wants to feel his heartbeat resonate with hers, wants to feel at peace with him. At the same time, she wishes he'd take his hands off of her so she could compartmentalize, filing her feelings into careful subsets so that accidents like this wouldn't happen anymore. So they could go back to normal, Soul the loyal indie rocker and Maka the stubborn workaholic, not this. Whatever _this_ is.

Things are going to change. Things are going to change _very soon._

Pretending that she doesn't want him just isn't an option anymore. Maka _could_ write the night before off as a drunken mistake, she supposes. Tell Soul it had been the wine talking, that she doesn't dream about the way his mouth tastes and what his tongue might feel like between her thighs - but she doesn't want to. Not anymore, not now that she's already played all of her cards and put it all on the table. Soul _knows_ now, despite all of the circles they've run in the past few weeks, and it's as comforting as it is terrifying.

So Maka summons her courage and clenches her fists in the sheets. "Hi. _Ow._ "

Soul leans back, still fiddling with the fraying hem of her shirt. Oh. Maybe it's his shirt, actually. It does feel a little big on her, and oh, her shoulder's bare, isn't it? The neck's certainly wider than anything she owns. "How's your head?"

The sun is a menace. "Bad," she says honestly. "Um. About… you know-"

He reads her like a damn book. Soul sits, leans over and pulls her curtains closed. At least without the white-light screaming in through her window, it's easier to think clearly. "Better?"

That fond, crooked smile of his is going to melt her bones. Maka Albarn will not leave this bed the same girl she was the night before, clearly; Soul's eyes are much too dark and affectionate for her to handle, and christ, the tears are hot as they burn her eyes and color her like freckles. Almost instantaneously, the smile is gone, and Soul cracks before her, brows pulled tight, palms warm on her face. _The jerk's_ wiping away her tears and goddammit, she wants to marry him. Goddammit, she wants him _forever._ And that's dangerous.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, it's okay. Sorry. Uh," Soul's voice breaks, and before long he's pulling his hands away, shoulders slouching. "Do you want me to go? I can-"

 _No,_ no she does not want him to go. That's just about the only thing she's sure of anymore. She wants Soul to stay and hold her hand and live with her, and she wants to turn the sun off, down a few painkillers and sleep her hangover away. But putting that into words is so difficult, and with the way he's looking at her now, Maka doesn't think she'll be able to deny him anything. Her heart is too big and he's weaseled his way in, patched up the cracks and bruises left behind by childhood trauma and divorce.

 _Asshole._ She _loves_ him.

She's terrified of not being enough for him and his inevitable shine, and it tears her apart. What's a guy like him to do with a girl who can't even read music? Who can't understand something that's so fundamentally part of who he is?

She reaches for his hands and catches his wrists instead. "No," she breathes, then sniffles. " _No,_ don't go. Please stay."

Soul nods quietly. Maka presses his palms to her face again and closes her eyes, allowing herself to bask in the warmth of his hands. Such soft hands he has. Such a soft heart he has. And warm, warm eyes. Watching him watch her is too difficult. She just wants to sleep off this screaming headache and wake up when things are normal again and she doesn't have to overanalyze her feelings for her best friend.

( _Love,_ she thinks, face heating. She _loves_ him, and he's okay with kissing her again, apparently, with the knowledge that she wants it, too.)

Nothing makes sense anymore. Maka wants to steal away a little of the calm he'd felt waking up and soothe her frayed nerves. Is this how it happens? Is this who they are now? Just another stereotype - childhood best friends turned _partners_?

There's a looming quiet for a long moment, and then, "Did you mean it?"

Maka cracks her eyes open and Soul's never looked more serious about anything. "Mmm?"

He blinks slowly, pupils blown wide. "Did you mean it?" he asks again, and Maka's heart thunders in her throat. "Last night? Fuck, do you even remember-"

Her hands are firm around his wrists. Maka lets her thumbs stray a little, though, and rub the tender skin at the base of his palm, just above the inside of his hand. "You're the most important person in the world," she mumbles, and Soul's lips twitch in the hint of a giddy smile. It makes her both want to throw her arms around him and barf.

"Yeah?" Christ, he sounds so goddamn excited. "That's- yeah. You're special, too."

Soul is not good with words. He's never been good with them, notorious for fumbling and stuttering in his youth, shuffling his way through speech therapy. He is a man of quiet support and sharp, occasional wit - a snarky joke here, a snide comment there, the sporadic, shy compliment - but he's _trying_ for her, and nothing thaws her more. It means he's taking this seriously. It means he's taking her and her _feelings_ seriously,

She owes him her honesty in return. No more sugar coated words. No more dancing around the subject. Maka is nothing if not brave, and now is the time to face the world head on.

"I'm scared," she admits, finally, eventually, focusing on the feeling of his skin beneath the pad of her thumb. "I don't- I don't want to lose you."

He brushes a thumb along her brow. "You're not going to lose me."

"Mama-"

"Your _mama_ married a dickhead who couldn't keep it in his pants," Soul grunts. The implied _not like me_ both makes her blush and nervous - men lie and cheat and leave broken families behind, but Soul nurses her through illness and holds her when she cries. Soul sleeps next to her and doesn't take advantage of her drunken desires.

It's not that she doesn't trust Soul, because she does. There's no one in the world she trusts more. Soul would not cheat on her.

She just doesn't know if she'll ever be what he needs. Can she be enough? He's so full of goodness, creative energy and rumbling melodies, and she runs on sheer stubborn determination and spite. They work in a close-knit friendship, but a _relationship_ is something else altogether.

Honesty is still the best policy. "What if it ruins what we have?"

"Maka," he says, blinking slowly, "I'm still gonna have these feelings for you. Can't wish them away and pretend they never existed. I mean, if you want me to keep ignoring them, I guess we can try that, but- I don't think anything could ever change who you are to me."

Her stomach lights up like fireworks. And boy, does her face burn, and he must be able to feel her blushing cheeks beneath his palms. "What am I?"

Soul pauses for a moment. He slips his hands from her face, nibbling his lower lip. His hand brushes through his hair and ah, there it is, that's his tell; he's feeling shy, and if that isn't the sweetest thing she's ever seen, well, she doesn't know what is.

"Uh," he blurts. "You're- you know."

The smile is impossible to deny. She presses her cheek to his knee. The both of them, blushing like damn fools. "Hm?"

"... Special," he settles for. "Important. My best friend."

Such a declaration feels like a damned proposal, laced with promises of forever, and even through the hangover, she still can't contain her smile. It's like diluted sunlight in the afternoon, peeking in through the clouds - just enough glee to handle without it being overzealous, without magnifying the pounding in her head.

Perhaps her grimacing is too much. Soul brushes her bangs back from her face and hums a little song. She remembers it vaguely; it sort of reminds her of childhood, of riding in the back of Papa's convertible with the top down and Mama's high ponytail rippling in the breeze. Such a peaceful, happy memory translates so easily, and Maka shuts her eyes and doesn't even flinch when she feels Soul's lips on the tip of her nose.

"We'll take it slow," he says quietly. "See where it goes from here."

"Will you kiss me again?"

She hears him laugh but then bite down on the noise. Thoughtful Soul. Loud, sudden noises are the bane of her existence right about now. Damn wine hangovers. The sugar is always the killer, and- ah, hm, maybe all that cake last night has something to do with how shitty she feels, too.

"Maybe later," Soul suggests. "Y'know. After you've slept away the pain."

.

Maka is cautiously optimistic.

The seven voicemails on her phone don't even kill her mood. It's a little like walking on cloud nine - and a lot like living in a dream, she thinks, and Soul's nervous little blush as she walks into the kitchen doesn't even feel real.

It's so silly. Are they always going to blush like fools at each other every time one catches the other staring? Will Maka ever be able to tear her gaze away from Soul's butt in skinny jeans ever again? How can she safely transition between being Soul's roommate to Soul's _bedmate_ without making things weird or rushing through the scary bits? There has to be a line between _just friends_ and _something more._ There just has to be; the only _problem_ is Maka isn't sure where the damn thing is and if they've crossed it already.

There's no studying for this. _Nowhere_ is there an instruction manual on how to romance her best friend without straining that very important foundation bit first. Because kissing him - and other _things,_ less chaste things - sounds like heaven, but not if it comes at the price of their _relationship_. First and foremost, Maka Albarn is Soul Evans' other half. Everything else is just extra, be it romance, sex or anything else that comes with dating him.

Are they dating? Is that what taking it slow means?

Perhaps she should give Blair a call, if Maka can't move past pre-teen giddiness over her first _real_ boyfriend on her own.

His dimples are so cute. Soul quirks a little half-smile at her and pivots. "Mornin', sleepy head."

Hm. Maybe not. She wants to keep him to herself, just for a little bit. The way he smiles at her is special, feels like napping in the sunlight, and she doesn't really want to share that with anyone else yet. It's no one's business but their own what they do in their free time. She can kiss him without explaining herself to anyone.

"Nice apron."

The lacy, frilly straps tell her he's stolen hers, again, to use. It's a little too small, and it's very, very pink, but Maka's not mad about it. He's cute in it. Of course, Soul is cute in a lot of things, and the freedom to think such sappy thoughts about him is exhilarating.

Soul blushing in her apron is somehow even cuter. "Mine's in the wash."

A likely excuse. Maka doesn't push it, though, and leans against the fridge, quietly watching him move through their kitchen. Living together negates so many nerve wracking steps in a romantic relationship - Soul won't have to go through all of the trouble of moving in with her because he's already there, and he's been there for years. More than that, they've known each other for most of their lives. They've slept together, for crying out loud. They slept together _last night._

Maybe the next step is _sleeping_ together.

"What's with the face," Soul asks, lazily flipping a pancake. Maka contemplates opening the freezer and crawling inside until her face resumes its normal shade of whiter-than-mayonnaise.

"Nothing," she squeaks.

He lifts a brow. Maka can practically feel him judging her. Stupid Soul, being cute and confusing. Stupid _Maka,_ being fully incapable of keeping her head on her shoulders around her newly minted significant other. Or something along those lines.

The pan sizzles, and Soul flips the pancake onto a paper plate. "Blair called," he mumbles, then leans forward to drag the volume up on his phone. From the counter, 90's alt rock drifts through the kitchen, and Soul takes to singing along quietly. There's such easy, lazy glee in him, legible in every tap of his foot.

The humming of the fridge grounds her. "It's like she has a sixth sense."

Maka catches his grin and feels her stomach flutter.

.

Calling Blair back can wait. There are more important matters to attend to.

Like seeing Soul out the door.

Part of her wants to ask him to stay in for the night. The tiny, pre-teen part of her, who is still nervously giddy at the prospect of spending time alone with her new kinda-sorta _boyfriend_. But a bigger part of her - sensible, adult Maka - knows that asking him to stay would be selfish. Soul has a life outside of catering to her clingy whims; he has a band, he has a gig tonight, and he's kind of crucial to the group's dynamics.

Still, it's a little exciting, walking him to the door and flipping the tag of his shirt back under his collar. She feels like a wife, ready to kiss her husband goodbye and wish him a good day of work. Even though it's dark outside, and he'll surely be home long after Maka's passed out on the living room couch. Because of course she'll try waiting up for him. She _always_ does. It's practically habit at this point.

He smiles crookedly and turns to face her. "Special treatment tonight."

Maka has to bite back the urge to brush her fingers through his hair. Short haired Soul still takes some getting used to. He certainly _looks_ a lot more like Wes with this cut, and saying it out loud would only make him self conscious of the fact.

Ah, it's not all so bad. He still has his dimples and his dark eyes. Wes isn't nearly as freckled as his little brother. And Soul's got such an interesting mouth - teeth and tongue and soft, soft lips that she's only had the pleasure of tasting once.

There goes her focus. Silly Maka, getting lost in daydreams of boys and smooching. She almost doesn't recognize herself. And yet, embracing it is freeing, and she pinches a little smile as she watches Soul hover over her. It's like he can read her damn thoughts, and his hand slips beneath her jaw to tilt her chin up, and-

Her damn phone is going off.

They both jump. Maka's forehead finds Soul's nose with disturbing accuracy and they both fall back, clutching their respective faces, muttering under their breath. She feels a lot like cursing - they'd been so close, and it had been so comfortable, and then-!

Soul's lips brush over her cheek and he smiles, pink. _Oh._

"I'll let you get that," he says, shifting his weight as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "Blake's probably here anyway. Tsu spent the night at his place I guess. Probably gonna end up coming tonight."

There's an unspoken invitation. _You could come too, if you want._ And part of her wants.

But the thought of loud music and beer kind of makes her nauseous, and she's not exactly dressed for a night out. She feels frumpy enough on an ordinary night out, but in oversized sweats and a cami - forget it, no chance, no way. Making her debut as Soul's leading lady just isn't in the cards tonight. Maka hasn't yet been able to finish wiping the smudged mascara from under her eyes and her good bra is in the wash.

She fishes her phone out of her pocket. "I'm going to take it easy tonight."

"Figured. Don't wait up, huh?"

"Don't tell me what to do," she retorts, grinning playfully. "Be safe. Make good decisions."

The flick to her forehead doesn't hurt, but Maka squeaks, all for show, before holding her hands over her face. Soul's grinning face is practically glowing as the apartment door swings open. "Don't tell me what to do," he flings back at her, and Maka doesn't even feel a little guilty about watching his butt as he leaves.

.

"So, Kitten, how was your reunion?"

What a loaded question. Maka pinches back the automatic answer - _a mess_ \- and instead focuses on painting her toes baby pink. Even in her 20's, it still feels weird to confess to a parent just how drunk she'd gotten the night before, or even to admit that she'd spent it half-dressed with a man. Even if that _man_ was just _Soul_.

She focuses more on wiping away the damp nail polish from the skin of her toe and sighs. "Fine. I saw Ox, and he was… himself."

Blair barks out a laugh. "Oh, as pleasant as always?"

"His head still _glistens_ like a cue ball."

Her step-mother continues giggling over the line, and Maka taps the speaker button as she lays her phone down on the table. All at once, the room feels a little less empty, and Blair's little cackle fills the dim living room with life. The TV flickers across from her, idly blinking with Family Feud reruns as she wiggles her toes, moderately satisfied at her handiwork.

As Blair's laughter subsides, Maka twists the little pink bottle shut. "But it was good, I guess. We danced. I found the wine. The cake was really good."

"And Soul?"

Nosy, nosy mother, poking so eagerly at all of her weak points. Of course Blair would ask - Maka just _knows_ she's been sitting hungrily by the phone, just waiting for her darling Kitten to fill her in on the latest developments of her love life. She prods not-so-gently, little shoves in the right direction - lovingly, of course, but sometimes Maka wishes Blair would just let things fall into place. The last time she'd let her dear stepmom arrange a date for her, Maka had ended up across the table from Kilik Rung. Which wouldn't have been a problem, of course, if he hadn't been Blake's boyfriend at the time.

Of course Blair would ask. Just a bit more than a week ago, Maka had called her in tears, worried that her feelings would ruin the best thing she'd ever had. A follow through was expected.

She still blushes like a damn fool, though. Ten hours later and Maka still can't think about being Soul's maybe-hopefully girlfriend without turning into a tomato. The odds aren't in her favor.

"He's fine," she says vaguely. "He had a gig tonight so he's not home. I'm watching Family Feud."

Sharp as a wip, Blair continues, practically purring, "But he went with you, Kitten? He was your date to the reunion?"

"No. I mean… not necessarily?" Had he been? She certainly hadn't asked him to come with her with that in mind. She just didn't want to show up alone and spend the night watching Kid and Liz hold hands and operate as a well-oiled married _unit_. "I- yeah, Soul went, but-"

"With you?"

"I wasn't about to go _alone!_ "

There's a long pause. Bristling, Maka can practically hear Blair's coy little smile, can practically hear the cogs turning in her head. Her step mama is assuming things. "So he went _with_ you."

"Blair," she says slowly, leaning back into the cushions of her couch, "he's my roommate."

It's not a lie. They cohabit the same space. Rent is split evenly between the two of them. Maka does the laundry and Soul takes out the trash. They've been _roommates_ longer than she's been fully aware of her feelings. What is the difference, really, between Soul going with her as a friend and Soul going with her as a date at this point, though? If they have those feelings anyway - and they do - what changes the rules? Is it the spoken confirmation that yes, Maka would like to climb him like a tree? Is it sleepy, tender conversations in the late morning, while she's hungover and he's nearly naked?

There are just so many rules to relationships and it sort of makes her head spin. Maka's never had an honest-to-goodness boyfriend. Never a serious one, anyway, never anyone to take home to Papa and her dancer step-Mama. And - _goodness_ \- if a romantic relationship has so many unique rules, what would a sexual one have?

"... Kitten?"

Has Blair been talking? Shoot, she's been so lost in her own head. "Um?"

Blair laughs quietly. "It's okay, you know. If he _was_ your date. Or if he wasn't. Either way, he still came with you. Soul doesn't really like those kinds of things very much, does he?"

The guilt hangs heavy in her chest, and Maka sighs, "No, he doesn't."

"But he went with you."

"He did."

"He's crazy about you, Kitten," Blair sing-songs. Maka thinks it might go along with whatever song is playing in the background on Blair's end, but she just can't tell. "That boy would do anything for you."

Maka leans her head back and shuts her eyes. _Anything._ Does anything mean hang around, even if his new kissing mate is too nervous to take the next step and undress for him just yet? Dating her best friend is one thing; there's no one in the world she trusts more than Soul Evans, of course, but - but sex with her best friend scares her as much as it fuels her. Sex hadn't saved her parent's marriage; sex had chased Mama away.

What if she's not good enough? For goodness sake, she's a _virgin._ How can she be good enough at something she has no practice with? Sure, _she_ wants to be the one smudging lipstick on Soul's collar late at night, but most of the time the most Maka wears is a clear, pinky gloss and some mascara. She is thin, and flat, and not exactly the poster of a wet dream. How can she ever be enough for him if she's just Maka?

Chewing her lip, she says, "I don't know…"

"Kitten?"

Maka sits forward and presses her hands down into her lap. "I just-" she pauses, blinking at the flicker of the television, the hem of her stolen shirt tangled between her fingers. ".. What if I'm not enough?"

Blair gasps. "What?"

"I mean- I've never- I don't want to be like Mama. Not like this," Maka blurts, feeling dirty for the admittance. "Mama was so much and she still wasn't- it didn't make Papa stay. And I don't… I don't want to lose Soul the way she lost Papa, even if it was mostly his fault- Soul's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him."

It seems profound, admitting such things in the dark. The apartment feels that little bit less empty with such fears out in the open. Having all of Soul for just one night of carnal pleasure isn't worth the risk.

"Kitten," Blair starts, and her voice is much more tender than she's used to. Sure, Blair has become the mother in her life, and sure, sometimes she surprises Maka with little treasures of advice, but first and foremost, the woman is playful. But this - this is different, she thinks. It's quiet. And gentle. "Kitten, Soul's not going to leave you once you sleep with him."

"How do you know?" she squeaks.

She sighs, and Maka can practically see her running her fingers through her long hair, drumming her pink-lacquered nails along the counter she's undoubtedly leaning over. The radio is in the kitchen, after all, in her Papa's home. "Because Soul is not your Papa. Soul is Soul."

"Soul's still a boy."

"Blair's never seen Soul look at another girl the way he looks at you, Kitten. Don't you trust him?"

The answer is instantaneous. "Yes."

"Well," Blair starts, "there's your answer. Soul won't leave after Kitten spreads her legs. But if you're not ready, that's okay, too. And he should understand that. Blair teases, but - sex is a big step, Kitten. Are you a virgin?"

Commence blushing. Commence feeling silly and like a child. "Shut up."

Her stepmother hums. "It's nothing to be ashamed of!"

"I just-!" Maka presses her hands down and tugs at the hem of her shirt. Putting it into words is difficult; how can she explain to a woman who is in an open sexual relationship that she's felt sexual attraction so rarely in her life that it's just never come up? Even in college, while all of her friends (sans Soul, of course) were sleeping around and exploring their sexualities, Maka still would have much rather sat in her dorm room watching Netflix and rereading Harry Potter. It was not a moral high road kind of thing (okay, maybe it was a little, but 18 year old Maka had a lot of internalized misogyny to work through, and slut shaming had definitely been a thing) but more a distinct lack of interest.

And then Soul, who's always made her feel safe and like she has a place in the world. And then Soul, with his warm smiles and pretty hands and defined hipbones peeking out over the drooping hem of his sweatpants, and - who even is she anymore? Why him? Why now, all of a sudden?

Blair hums again. "Kitten?"

"I don't… usually want to have sex," Maka admits, blushing, twisting the hem of Soul's shirt between her fingers. "At least… I didn't for a long time. I think I might want to now? But what if that changes, and halfway in I decide I don't want to anymore, and then we have to stop?"

"Then you stop?"

"And I've never done it before! How can I be good at something I have no practice at?!"

"You always have been a perfectionist," Blair says fondly. Maka only blushes further and throws herself down to lay on the couch, TV remote digging into her hip, feeling stupid and frustrated and pathetic. "There's no time limit on losing your virginity. Lose it when you feel comfortable. And you can keep it for as long as you want, too. Sex is only good when you want it."

When she wants it. Maka chews her lip and stares at the ceiling, watches the way the light moves across the popcorned texture in waves of white and shadows. A car must be driving by.

"... And if I never want it?"

"Then Soul will just have to be okay with that. And if he isn't, you kick him in the teeth," Blair chirps helpfully, and Maka can't help but grin, just a little bit. "But he will understand, Kitten. Soul's a good boy. You know that."

She does. Soul spent a whole night nearly naked in her bed with her and hadn't tried a thing, despite several drunken invitations. Soul routinely snarls at men who get too close to his female bandmates at bars and holds their drinks while they run to the bathroom. He's always been good about that sort of thing, and never expects anything out of it. More often than not, the reason he's home so late is because he decides to give Kim a ride home instead of letting her walk (or drive) alone, a little drunk, and in the dark.

Not that Soul is particularly intimidating. He's such a teddy bear. All he's got going for him is his rough appearance and a particularly strong resting bitch face.

God, she can't stop giggling. Soul couldn't hurt a fly.

.

By the time he finally comes home, her phone reads 2 AM and Maka's blinking groggily at the ceiling.

He seems to hover over her, leaning to tug her headphones out of her ears and stop her song. Ah… hm. Between reading and waiting for him to arrive, she must've fallen asleep. Her mouth feels dry and cottony and ugh, accidental naps are the _worst._ All plans of meeting him at the door and finally getting her damn kiss have been thrown out the window. _Shoot._

It's like trying to claw her way past the surface and break free. She's so close to swimming her way free, lips pursing, eyes adjusting to the darkness as Soul switches the TV off. As it is, she can barely make out the outline of him, moving back through the living room and rounding the couch.

"I thought I said not to bother waiting up for me," Soul mutters, plucking the headphone wire away from her throat thoughtfully. Her lids are heavy, and Maka tries to formulate an excuse, but he's already carefully tucking a sliver of paper into her book to keep her place and scooping her up into his arms.

He's a little cold. The leather of his jacket is chill on her skin, and she shivers and whines, squirming against him. "Noooo…"

"You'll hurt your neck sleeping on the couch like that," he says, and sleepy Maka hates how reasonable he sounds.

She's tired, dammit, and deprived of promised kisses. She has to know what kissing him would be like now. For _science_. Only she can't quite crane herself around at this angle to tug his face down for much-needed smooches, and ugh, Maka just wants to sprawl out on top of him and sleep forever. She wants to feel his stupid stubbly jaw beneath her chin and feel his heartbeat against hers.

He shuffles down the hall, careful not to bump her feet against any walls or doorframes. If she were more alert, she might be a bit impressed by this feat of strength - but then again, there's not really much to Maka, and Soul is charmingly gangly.

"Blair called again," she mumbles as Soul kicks his bedroom door open. "We talked…"

"Huh," Soul says, depositing her on his bed. Her location barely registers, and Maka gives a mewl of pleasure as she stretches out on the mattress. "What'd she want?"

She's too sleepy to care about being embarrassed. Soul's belt jingles as it drops to the floor and Maka peeks over the rise of the pillows as he turns his back to her and strips, the length of his back looking promising in the low light. He has no right being so pretty. His shoulders have no right looking so kissable. It's almost disturbing how badly she wants to bite them; shouldn't that be his job? Soul's the one with the sharp teeth, anyway. Soul's the one who chews on things when he's bored.

Then he drops his pants, and Maka hides her face in his pillows, still too tired to blush. "Don't get naked," she whines.

His boyish chuckle ignites something long dormant in her. What a strange, particular heat, looming low in her belly. "Wouldn't dream of it. Just putting sweats on-"

"Soul," she groans. "Soul, I think I love you and I don't know what to do about it."

Not even a moment passes before she feels his hand on the small of her back, and the mattress dips beneath his weight. Maka finds the courage to peek at him over the rise of his pillows and he's smiling at her, looking younger and more lively than she can ever remember.

And so close. He tucks an arm around her and she shuffles closer, going as far as hooking a leg around his hip. The weight and heat of him against her is grounding, but his heartbeat isn't nearly as soothing as originally anticipated. It's like his heart is right about to leap out of his chest, thundering, _thundering_. She's absurdly pleased, and might take the time to kiss his bare chest if his face wasn't so close and distracting.

He blinks at her. Licks his lips. "Can I kiss you now?"

Oh, Soul. She's only been waiting all day.


	10. part ten

**PART 10  
SOUL**

.

Kissing quickly becomes his favorite pass time.

For someone so seemingly indifferent on liplocking, it's a little startling for him to suddenly crave it so often. But it's different now; kissing had always been messy, awkward, with too many things to consider and keep track of- lips and tongues and urgh, gross, pass. It's such a private, intimate exchange, the sort of thing that normally spikes his anxiety and forces him out of his comfort zone. Passing on such an uncomfortable transfer of saliva had been so easy - and being pressed up against a brick wall with what's-her-name's _(Chloe's?)_ hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt hadn't even inspired want quite like Maka's fleeting, blushing kisses do.

And boy, does he _want._

But he dials it back, chains back the roaring beast in his chest that wishes to pin Maka to a wall instead, that wants to hold her hips in his hands and taste her neck, perhaps. Doesn't _that_ sound like a swell time. It's bizarre, really, to long for her the way he does now. He's known Maka practically forever. He's known _himself_ even longer, and _desire_ \- be it sexual or even _romantic_ , really - has been such a barren wasteland for him for years.

Not now, though. Maka's lips burn his cheek as she grazes a kiss on the corner of his lips. She's got her hair all tied back, but there are blonde wispies brushing along the pale length of her neck and he wants to kiss her there, too. Wants to bite her skin until she's pink and her collar's unbuttoned, so that he can gawk at her throat. Kind of wants to lick her, too.

Maybe he's a damn dog now. Maybe finally fessing up and coming clean has evolved him into some sort of drooly canine creature. He's loyal enough, he supposes. Certainly follows her around enough to qualify as her pet mutt.

"I can't believe you're up before noon," she says, giggling. Morning Maka is so cute. Why hasn't he spent more time with morning Maka? She's got some glossy lip stuff on and it's sticky on _his_ lips in all the right ways. "What's the occasion?"

He feels grubby and his stupid bedhead has a stubborn cowlick but it's all worth it for pre-work kisses. Talk about rejuvenation. It's so goddamn _freeing_ to be able to kiss her and not worry about scaring her off, or silly things like that; more often than not it's Maka tugging him in for smooches, Maka tucking herself against him and sneaking between his sheets for bedtime snuggles. She's so darling, with blushing cheeks and bright eyes and _thinking that she might love him,_ goddamn. Maka's got his heart in a headlock and he's damn content letting her manhandle him.

Soul yawns and leans his forearm on the doorframe. "Can't I see my girl off?"

She blushes so often now. He loves it. Wants to tattoo her flustered, bashful expression onto his skin so that he may never forget it. "Your _girl,_ " she chuffs, fiddling with the straps of her bag.

"I mean," he says, scratching idly at his face. "Kind of assumed, since I'm your boy and all. Faithful servant."

"You're not my _servant_ ," says Maka, with pursed lips and freckles glowing in the yellowed entrance light.

No, but he'd be weirdly okay with it if he was. He smiles at her and ducks down to press his lips to her forehead, barely stifling the uncool, giddy glee that leaps in his chest when she squeaks a little. "If you get to be dweeby and kiss me at the door when I leave, I think I should be granted the same privilege."

"Do you, now?"

"Mmm," he hums, hovering, rubbing a thumb along the heat of her cheek. Her eyes are fiery evergreen and he's helpless, as always. All it takes is gentle encouragement for her to tip her head back, and then he's leaning over her, one cheek cupped in his hand as he kisses her.

And what a kiss. He can feel her smiling against his lips, that sticky gloss so sweet beneath his tongue, and _oh-_ she's never met his tongue with hers quite so eagerly before, ah. She's so much more alert in the mornings than she is past midnight, when he's arriving home from assorted gigs and crawling his way into bed with her. Perhaps there really is something to crawling out of bed at the asscrack of dawn - if it means getting to taste her tongue and feel her sigh, well, count him a rehabilitated man, because his soul is officially an early riser.

It's not the only thing rising. _Christ._ He shuffles awkwardly and leans back, pivoting his hips decidedly away from her smart pencil skirt. Easy, mutt. No reason to get so hot and bothered before her day has even begun.

Her eyes are still closed when he backs away. She just breathes for a while, lashes fluttering, lips looking delightfully swollen. There's gloss smudged along her upper lip and he can taste it on his own and goddamn, is that distracting. The rise and fall of her chest with each deep, clarifying breath will be his undoing.

And then she smiles and signed, sealed, delivered, he's hers.

"Oh," she says quietly. Bright green peeks through ashen lashes like the first burst of sunrise. " _Oh."_

He is half aroused grimace, half enamored fool. "... Mornin', Maka."

Her flustered giggles do not help his situation any. Between the rotting cavities from her sweetness and the nearly obvious protrusion in his damn sweatpants, Maka Albarn will be the death of him. Such blatant whiplash should be illegal. The urge to caveman carry her back to bed and press his face into her perfumed, freshly-showered skin is nearly overwhelming. Who is he and what has he done with devil-may-care Soul Evans?

His fingers clench around the wood of the doorframe. Damn door's still swung open, and Mildred Greenlaw down the hall is staring at them like a peepshow.

"Okay," she says, even though he hadn't even asked her anything. "Good morning, Soul. Have a nice night at work."

She spots his palm with another kiss. For the road, perhaps, but her lingering mouth on his skin and the way she glances at him through her lashes is forever burnt in his memory. Forget napping right away - he's definitely going to need to get a _handle_ on his situation before anything else, and _stat._

.

"So," Blake says, brows each an individual, waggling blue blur. "The _reunion."_

Woefully unprepared to deal with such teasing before a set, Soul resumes his normal perch, scowling behind his keyboard in order to further avoid any prying questions from his drummer. Really, his staggering obsession with his love life is exhausting at this point; it's been weeks since that damn reunion and Blake's still pestering him about it.

Half of Soul thinks it's because Tsu has gone home and Blake's disappointed that becoming a Canadian citizen isn't done by merely crossing the border and announcing his presence. The twerp is most probably projecting - _one of them has to be getting laid_ and dual citizenship is a task in itself.

Soul snorts just thinking about it. "Going that well with Tsubaki, huh?"

Blake scowls, drum sticks clattering against the snare. "Someone's still a virgin, I see," he says, pouting, and Soul scowls right back in return. "No need to take your frustration out on me."

"Mind your own damn business," Soul says, huffing. "Really don't think Maka would enjoy knowing you discuss her sex life like a sport."

"Eh," Blake starts, shrugging, before shifting easily into a leer. "So you _are_ bumping uglies!"

What an outdated phrase. Soul rolls his eyes and drums his fingers along the top of his keyboard. Sleeping with Maka would hardly count as bumping uglies. Wouldn't that imply any part of her is unattractive? Which, _ha,_ fat chance - he might have his own insecurities (and a cock, by any name, would look just as fucking _strange_ ) but Maka's _everything_ sets his soul on fire. Him bumping his ugly against her bomb as hell everything would be more appropriate.

Not that Blake can see much past tits. Hair brained musclehead gets caught up in the physical.

"Didn't say that," Soul retorts.

" _Implied_ it."

He snorts, leaning forward, slouching over his instrument. "Does it really matter? Don't really wanna discuss it with you anyway, so."

Blake mulls this over for a bit. Finally, when Jackie's done plucking at her bass and everything is tuned, he turns to his alleged best bro with a decidedly more serious expression. "Does it get easier?"

"Huuuh?"

He stares unblinkingly. "The mushy gunk. Wanting to like… _profess_ things. And hold her hand - and not like, punch her in the arm every time she says something smart, like I do with Maka. It's just…" Forlorn, he flinches, finally staring at his hands instead of his bandmate. It's almost unnerving, seeing Blake so serious about something. It's like a switch has been flicked, and he is less the loud mouthed narcissist and more a thoughtful loverboy.

It's like looking into a freaky funhouse mirror. Only his reflection should never have bright blue hair and gaudy star tattoos.

"... Like you want to be with her all the time?"

Blake nods, jaw set. "Yeah."

"And everything reminds you of her stupid face," Soul continues, settling back into routine. This, he thinks, is something he can advise upon; he's been dealing with frustration attraction and attachment to his best friend-turned- _girlfriend_ (?) for the better half of his life, honestly. "And even when she's doing some dumb shit, like jumping off of Kilik's roof and into his pool, you still think she's the coolest damn person on the planet."

Recognition lights in Blake's eyes, and he sits back on his stool, arms hanging limply beside him. A drumstick rolls to the floor and should clatter noisily, Soul thinks, if not for the ambient conversation and hollering of the bar muting it. Still, it's adequate punctuation for his band mate's realization, and it's half-dread written on his face when he mutters, "I _love_ her," as if it is his swan song.

And perhaps it is. Having feelings for Tsubaki - who lives in another country, for fuck's sake - will surely be the death of Blake's bachelor ways. Gone will be the nights where he takes a different guy or girl home after a few drinks and some cringe-worthy pick up lines. No, now he's doomed himself to endless pining, and sitting by the phone, waiting for his _number one starshine_ to text him back, timezones be damned.

Soul cracks his neck and nods. "Not a bad thing," he suggests. "Tsu's a nice girl."

"She's in _Canada._ "

"Canada's not that far from the states. It could be worse - she could be staying with her folks in Japan, you know."

The mere mention of Tsubaki's parents sobers him even more. Starboy looks decidedly stricken. "Will I have to meet her parents?"

"I mean," Soul starts, idly rubbing his cheek. A glass shatters elsewhere abruptly and Blake doesn't even _wince_. "If you're serious about her, probably? Meeting her folks really isn't that bad, I mean- yeah, Spirit's a… y'know, he chases skirts like it's his job, and he's probably going to try clobbering me once he finds out I've swapped spit with his _darling angel,_ but he's not terrible. It's not the worst thing I've ever had to endure. I guess."

Blake squints at him. "You've known Maka's old man since before you two were hot for each other. You knew him when you were like _seven_."

"Still threatened me with a golf club to never touch Maka's pumpkin panties."

The drummer bites his lip. Probably to keep himself from teasing. It must take an immense amount of self control to keep back any unnecessary commentary on Maka's underwear and to inquire further on Soul's history with such garments. It's sort of how he knows Blake's serious about the Tsubaki thing; there are very few things in this world that can keep Blake Barrett from cracking jokes about Maka Albarn's granny panties. _Widdle baby bloomers._

They're not even granny panties anymore. A lacier number had been tangled up in his black skinny jeans' pant leg last week, so the whole thing is a moot point anyway.

Perhaps he should think less about his newly minted girlfriend's underwear and more about reassuring his friend that having romantic feelings isn't the end of the world. Perhaps he should stop being such a shitty bro and start thinking about that nervous twitch in Blake's brow instead of sneak peeks of lacy black.

He's such a goner. It's disgusting. Soul shakes his head and groans, collapsing spectacularly, forehead meeting the keys of his instrument with a noisy clatter.

From aside, Jackie scowls. "Less chatting and more working, you two! We're getting _paid_ for music and not having a pow-wow, you know."

"Take the stick outta your ass, Jack," Blake huffs, waving his recently-rescued drumstick at her menacingly.

The girl rolls her eyes and turns her back to him, fiddling with her mic stand instead, and Blake rolls his eyes right back, only twice as dramatically. Soul thinks perhaps the moment has passed, and the thoughtful, lovestruck Blake has been tucked back away beneath layers of ego and caps-lock, because the moment he tries to bring the subject up again, Blake's scowling and waving a hand at him. Later, perhaps? Or never? The guy's never exactly been stellar at expressing vulnerability. If Soul is emotionally constipated, Blake's stuck somewhere between a blowout and blackout.

Regardless, like clockwork, the moment passes and he clicks his drumsticks together. The night goes smoothly after that, and the music is easy for Soul to lose himself to.

.

As much fun as watching Maka struggle to reach a jar is, eventually he's bound to take pity on her. Their setting changes nothing. Be it in their kitchen, at his parents' house, or at a grocery store - it doesn't matter. There's something adorable about Maka teetering on the tips of her toes, grasping desperately for her favorite brand of tomato sauce, but his conscious kicks in sooner than later. Presently, Soul finds himself behind her, his longer limbs lending him the necessary height to reach Maka's goal.

And as cute as her pouty face is, this bright-eyed beaming thing she has going on now is even better. She has such a talent for validating him in strange, tiny ways. "Thanks," she gasps, patting his cheek. "I could have gotten it, but-"

"Not unless you were planning to scale the shelves," he says, amused, and Maka's thumb brushes over his unshaven jaw with peculiar interest. He blinks at her. "Maka?"

Her lips press together. "... Stubbly," she mumbles.

"Is that… a bad thing?" Christ, is this going to be a thing now? Is he going to be twice as aware of his appearance now that he and Maka share a space? There's something about being with her now that is somehow new but still _familiar,_ like a low-burning heat, simmering and keeping him warm.

Of course he's always wanted to look presentable, and his extensive skin-care routine is evidence enough of that, but as Maka's thumb traces over his chin and nearly makes contact with his lip, well, he's never felt quite so desperate to please. It's different than before, not quite the same as middle school insecurities and hating his sharky face and lanky limbs - no, thirteen year old Soul has grown into adult Soul, and he only wants to know if Maka thinks he's just as kissable with stubble along his jaw and a too-short haircut.

Maka shrugs. "It's different, I guess- it's not smooth."

"It's _unshaven,_ brainiac. Duh."

"Well!" she says, balking, slipping her hand from his face to press it to her hip. "It's not a bad thing, you jerk. It's just a different texture. I guess I never… you know, felt your face before. Like that."

And they have been getting awfully chummy lately. His personal space has been hers. Last night, Soul had the pleasure of running his hands over her bare thighs and feeling her (aroused?) sigh against his neck, and it had been everything to him. The boundaries they hadn't dared cross before are being rapidly demolished and he's never been more pleased with life.

Her skin had been delightfully soft. And he should probably not be entertaining such thoughts while practically caging her into the pasta sauces.

He stumbles back and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Oh," he mumbles, and Maka finally gets a two-hand grasp on her jar, secure in her small hands. "I can shave it off, if you want-"

"Aw, you lazy bag of bones would do that for little ol' me?"

He cannot let his guard down even for a moment. Sharp-witted Maka will go in for the kill, and even if she's kind of his girlfriend now, he cannot allow her to successfully roast him. First and foremost, she is his best friend - and that means she has more ammunition to drag him than anybody else.

Which is fine. The reverse is also true. A good relationship has an even makeout to roast ratio, and lately they've been lacking in the teasing. Soul can't allow the honeymoon phase to drop his guard. "Maybe, if you ask nicely, I might consider it. See if I can pencil it into my schedule."

She sets the jar down in the bed of the shopping cart and grins at him over her shoulder. She knows just as well as he does that his schedule consists of nothing but eating, sleeping, writing music, and her. Occasionally maybe a run in with Kid and Liz, or maybe a surprise visit from Blake or Blair, but the point still stands - she is always in his schedule, and she knows it, too, judging by the way she eyes him as he makes his way over to the cart.

It's flattering. For once, he doesn't mind being eyed like he's a hunk of meat. If it were anyone else so blatantly giving him a once-over, he might balk, might even scowl, but it's Maka, so he flicks her nose on the way to the front of the cart and says, "My eyes are up here, perv."

"I!"

"Caught you staring," he says, grinning, grinning, and brushes past her on his way by.

Never one to be outdone, Maka reaches out and gooses him. His squawk is very manly and everyone in the general vicinity should be jealous of his cool-guy swagger. His darling roomie lacks such envy and presses her fingers to her lips to muffle her giggle.

Whatever. She can have this one. He's still just surprised she grabbed his ass! She's never been ballsy enough to _grope_ him before, no matter how brief. He sputters for a moment, struggling to grasp his shattered composure, and Maka only grins behind the splay of her fingers, looking much too smug and pleased with everything for her own good. Little brat. Cute little brat with the brave hands.

Eh. Then again, it's not like Maka's ever been anything but courageous. It shouldn't be a surprise that Maka would take the reigns.

 _No Scrubs_ blasting from his butt pocket is the only thing that keeps him from accidentally word-vomiting something stupid. Relief comes in rare form from the ringtone of Wes Evans, brother extraordinaire, king of the obnoxious and well-meaning but misplaced taunting. It startles even Maka, whose hand drops from her mouth in quiet solidarity.

His brother is a bit of a headache. Mutually, they meet eyes and a wordless exchange passes between them. Maka carefully sets the jar of tomato sauce in the seat of the cart as Soul swipes open the call and holds his phone to his ear. "What do you want?"

Wes chuckles. "Is that any way to answer your favorite brother?"

"You're only the favorite because you're my only option."

"Harsh, little bro. Nothing but tough love from you, I see."

Soul waves off Maka's questioning stare with his hand. She shuffles around and begins pushing the cart down the aisle as Soul slumps after her, phone held up to his ear with half-dread. "What do you waaaaant, Wes?"

"Maybe I just wanted to catch up with _my_ favorite baby brother!"

He sighs spectacularly. "We literally just went over this. I'm your only brother."

"And whose fault is that? Maybe I want a new sibling."

Soul snorts. "I'd take that one up with Ma, actually," he says, rolling his eyes, and Maka weighs two boxes of macaroni in her hands indecisively. "They're the same damn thing, Maka. Just pick one," Soul then pipes up, pressing the phone to his cheek.

Pink crawls up the back of her neck. Soul wonders what it would feel like under his tongue.

Such ease shall never last in the presence of Wes Evans. With him around, there is always imminent harassment and headache. His brother laughs a little before asking, "Am I interrupting something?" Which isn't invasive by nature - it's really a polite question, something Maka herself would probably ask - but it's the smug way he says it that really grinds Soul's gears. He can practically picture his brother's stupid smug face grinning. "I can call back if this is a bad time, Soul-"

"No," he says stubbornly. Over his dead body will Wes have such satisfaction, no siree. "It's fine. We're grocery shopping. Say hi, Maka."

She scoots her way in close and cheekily says, "Hi, Maka!"

" _Nerd,"_ Soul says, gently shoving her head away. She blows nosy mock kisses in the direction of his phone and Soul intercepts and catches them with his hand, instead. Wes doesn't need any excess affection, even if it's all play. The guy's practically rolling in gentleman callers anyway - what does he need Maka's play smooches for?

Soul decides to pocket them instead. Just in case a kiss famine is sprung upon him. It's never too early to start saving up, after all. It's just a wise investment on his behalf. Soul's got a pocketful of sunshine, got a pocketful of sunshine, got a love and it's all his oh, _whoa~_

Christ, he's in over his head. Standing there, grinning like a fool with imaginary, false smooches tucked into the pocket of his black skinnies probably ranks somewhere on the uncool scale. How the mighty have fallen, he thinks, as Maka bumps his hip and scurries her way across the aisle to grab some rice. Teenage Soul would be mortified to find himself pocketing cutesy girlfriend kisses in a public space. Hell, teenage Soul would be surprised to find Maka blowing kisses at all; she's never been stingy on affection past a certain age, per se, but kissing and meaningful handholding are two totally different things.

He likes both, of course. Both is good. Both is more than good; both at the same time is like the cream of the crop, the best of the best.

Somehow he's managed to tune Wes out. A fatal mistake, for sure. His big-mouthed brother is never one to be ignored. "Hello? Earth to Romeo?"

"Huh?"

"She sounds happy," Wes says, clearly tongue-in-cheek. "Sounds like someone woke up on the _right_ side of the bed."

"You're gross. Has anyone ever told you that you're gross? You should feel bad about it."

"Never said whose bed she was in," he sing-songs. "Your defensiveness is telling. I'm glad everything is moving along smoothly over there. Ma and I were beginning to think we'd never see any pigtailed babies in our lifetimes. Anti-wrinkle cream can only buy us so much time, Soul. It's bad enough you're already gray."

He's so full of shit. "You're so full of shit."

"Your white hair says otherwise, grandpappy."

"I'm albino, you talking bag of dicks."

"So many insults! Has anyone ever told you that you're a man of few words?"

Soul rolls his eyes and pushes his fingers through his chopped hair. Ah. Well, that puts a damper on one of his numerous nervous mannerisms. Good thing a haircut can't demolish his ability to fiddle with anything and everything. He finds a nickel in his pocket and rolls it between his fingers idly. "The few words I know are good ones. Like 'fuck'."

His brother hums in agreement. "You do love that word. It was your first, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Ma was pissed."

Wes's laughter is less annoying than before. Soul lets out a breath and leans on the handle of the cart, watching Maka weave her way through middle-aged soccer moms and stray children. "I guess that's partially my fault. You did learn it from me, after all. Imagine her horror that, after three years of silence, her baby boy just up and drops the f bomb."

Yeah, he can imagine the horror. He's heard the story hundreds of times, at every dinner party, can picture his mother's scandalized face, Wes's grinning face from across the table, clear as day. And yeah, it definitely earns a rightful smile on Soul's face. "Even as a toddler, I was still cool as shit."

"If that's what you want to call it, little brother," Wes says, still laughing. "Which reminds me! The reason why I am on the phone with you right now-"

"If this is going to ruin the moment, don't. We can go on laughing about Ma instead."

"I'm coming to visit."

The moment flies out the automatic doors of the grocery store and gets Frogger'd in the intersection. " _Noooooo."_

"Come on! It's been months since I've seen you, little brother, and my schedule is finally clearing up," Wes starts, and Soul finds himself slouching further, shoulders caving beneath the weight of his brother's impending presence. "Think of all of the quality time we could spend together!"

Goodbye, personal space. Goodbye, glorious privacy. And - most importantly - goodbye, Maka's bed, goodbye sleepy night-time kisses tucked beneath Maka's sheets, because Wes's given berth has never been and will never be wide. It's more like a miniscule berth. Close quarters. Breathing down his neck, reeking of expensive cologne and hairspray, while linking arms with him and dragging him out into the light of the day. Which reminds him! He won't be able to sleep in if Wes is around and wanting to explore the city, fuck.

The whole thing just sounds bad. As much as he loves (a lot, whatever) and misses (debatable at best) his older brother, Soul's sleepy time is important. Something he sacrifices for very few people.

Only Maka, really. And she has special privileges, because she has pretty eyes and pretty legs and a pretty _soul._ Pretty everything, really. And does not own neon, glow-in-the-dark condoms and absolutely does not break into his bedroom to challenge him to a sword fight.

Not… that he'd be disinterested if she did. Huh. _That's_ a weird thought. He'd probably be down for a lot of things, should Maka be the one waving a hypothetical penis around.

"Quality time~" Wes sings again.

"Or we could, you know," Soul grunts, " _not._ Not is good."

"I already have plane tickets. Your future is sealed, baby bro."

So it is. In typical Soul Evans fashion, he accepts his fate and slumps down, planting his face in his hands.

It's fine. Whatever. Not the worst thing he's ever endured. If Soul can stomach Blake grinding on his old pre-k pal Tsubaki on the reunion dancefloor, he can deal with his brother's meddling ways for a weekend or so. Especially if it means damning Wes to sleep on the floor. Yeah, that'll feel good. See how he likes waking up with a crick in his back. See how long he stays then.

"As long as it's okay with Maka, of course," Wes amends quickly. "I wouldn't want to impose on your housemate."

At least he didn't just say _mate_. "I'm sure she'll be fine. You know how she is."

"Welcoming! And so polite," Wes says, sighing dramatically. "What a wonderful wife she'd be, Soul. And a mother! Just think, if she's this good at picking up after your mess, how good she'd be at nurturing your spawn? And then I would have a niece or nephew to spoil!"

" _Bye,_ Wes!"

"PICK ME UP AT THE AIRPORT ON TUESD-"

Perhaps there's something to be said about a brother who's more interested in Soul's potential future children than Soul actually is. It's always been one of those things that has existed in gray what-if territory. Soul doesn't dislike children anymore than he dislikes any other stranger. His own children would be cool, probably. Babies cry and scream and shit, but they also do that big-eyed drooling thing that makes him feel like he's important and necessary, and _that_ does wonders for his self-esteem.

Besides, they're pretty cute, too. How can anything so small exist? A tiny bundle of life, created from love. Or, uh, the exchange and mashing of opposing private bits.

Conception is weird. Birth is weirder (and grosser, too).

Soul decides Wes is the weirdest, and also decides that he will not feel pressured just because Wes' hypothetical eggs have been put on a shelf and he really wants to spoil a cute blonde-haired toddler. Besides, he would kind of like to be married before he starts procreating. And he kind of needs a ring for Maka's finger first before that happens.

Christ. They've only been dating a week or so and he's already thinking wedding rings. Slow down, Speed Racer. There's still time for all of that. There's still time to date, dammit. They're barely in their 20's, for fuck's sake. They've never even seen each other naked, never mind had sex.

Well. He's seen her tits. But she was drunk during that entire fiasco, so he's going to continue to pretend it didn't happen. Even if her resulting confession had rocked his world and lead to their tentative, are-we-or-aren't-we? thing they've got going on.

Soul thinks they're dating. He's pretty sure they're dating. They're taking it slow, whatever that means, because it makes her more comfortable and he's not in any rush to hurry things along. They kiss. They hold hands. They still snuggle on the couch and fight over the TV remote and bicker in the aisle of the grocery store like old roommates and childhood best pals. It's comfortable, whatever they are. And he just really hopes Wes doesn't rock the boat and make things weird for them again. Maka seems so happy as of late. Maka smiles a lot more, and kisses him a lot more, and that's cool. Probably the coolest thing ever.

Speaking of which.

Maka finally fights her way through the army of coupon-wielding mothers and drops her bounty in the cart. "Sorry! They're way more hardcore than I am," she says, straightening out her girly pigtails. "I got some rice, though. No thanks to the tall woman with her child on a leash, though."

"Yikes."

Like a child herself, she hops onto the back end of the cart, and Soul grunts as he pushes her down the aisle, parting the wave of mommies and bleary-eyed children like the red sea. He only hopes to avoid the backs of ankles and to not accidentally ram Maka into the woman with her own damn kid on a leash.

"What did Wes want?" She asks finally, as the wheels of the cart squeal. He bypasses the snack aisle, as per Maka's stern glare, and proceeds onto the frozen food. "You usually hang up on him way sooner."

"Impressed by my patience?"

She smiles slowly, then bites her lip. "Such a big boy."

 _Uuuuugh._ She's trying to kill him. Such a phrase is both laughably gross and _hot,_ just because it came out of _her_ dweeby mouth. Soul schools his expression into typical bored indifference and not whatever it is he's feeling now. "He's coming to visit."

"Oh!"

"And he's staying with us. Sorry."

She blinks thoughtfully. "Where's he going to sleep, Soul? We don't have an extra bed, and the last time we put him on the couch, he complained that his legs were too long-"

"-and then took my bed, yeah. I know." He will literally never forget because fuck, Wes, _his legs are also too long for the couch_. "I was thinking the floor would be a suitable replacement."

Maka laughs out loud. Her fingers curl around the bars of the cart as she leans forward, and Soul gives a little extra shove to get the cart squealing down the tiled floor with a little more momentum. It's not that she's heavy, because Maka is probably about 100lbs of lean muscle, but more that he's a stringbean with noodle arms decorated in ink to hide the truth. Soul is not the beefcake in this relationship. He does not do the heavy lifting.

But Maka likes riding around the store like a kid, and he's never been one to deny her a good time.

"Soul," she says, very seriously. "Wes is even more of a baby than you are. He's not going to sleep on the floor."

"But I live here! I get bed!"

Her brows raise. Perhaps Maka has not truly realized what a petulant toddler she lives with. Well, so be it. It's his damn bed. Fuck off, Wes.

"You could sleep in mine, you know," she says finally, loftily, looking anywhere but him. Her cheeks burn pink as she hops down from the ass-end of the cart and attempts to shove her face into one of the freezers. She's grabbing for ice cream, but Soul suspects the heat running from her cheeks to the tips of her ears is a more realistic cause.

He could sleep in her bed while Wes is over. The thought is as tempting as it is terrible, and Soul deserts the cart to trail after her like an eager puppy. "You'd be okay with that? I have the bigger bed."

She jumps, just a little, but doesn't flinch away when he grabs the door handle and holds it open for the both of them. They could probably both do with some cooling down. She's pale, and her blush blooms bright, but his face feels like it's about to combust, too. Plus, his stomach is doing an eager little floaty butterfly thing and it's dweeby, dammit. He is a grown ass man. He should not be so giddy over the prospect of spending the night in his best friend's bed. They've done this before, dammit.

But never with the same connotations between them. Never now that they've exchanged kisses and little hushed, promised words of affection. It kind of feels like bunking together for realsies now. Like maybe someday they'll just share one bedroom period and that's _it._

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He's in _so fucking deep._

"Y… yeah," she says, finally, before clearing her throat. She turns to stare at him, nose pink from the chill of the freezer, a pint of cookie dough ice cream clenched in her hands, practically glowing in the clouded air around them. "I mean, as long as you don't mind a little cuddling. My bed _is_ smaller."

"I think I'll live."

Her resulting smile makes him want to curl up inside the freezer. " _Okay,"_ she says, and scoots out of the way so that he may finally close the freezer and stop thawing the fudgesicles. "Then it's solved, then. Wes gets your bed, and you can sleep with me."

It's only the stuff dreams are made of. Soul leans his back against against the fogging freezer door and watches Maka collect more assorted groceries, wondering when his life became so damn domestic, wondering when, exactly, he became the luckiest damn fool in the entire world. No guy with a face like his deserves a girl with a smile like hers.

But he'll take it. He's not foolish enough to turn away such a tremendous heart.

He's just lucky, he guesses. And maybe Wes visiting won't be the worst. Maybe it'll be annoying at best. Hell, if he's bunking with Maka, it can't be all bad, right?


	11. part eleven

**PART 11**

**MAKA**

.

She's calling it spring cleaning, but it's still not enough to motivate Soul out of bed.

But they have company coming, for goodness' sake, and if there's one thing her mama had instilled in her as a child, it was to project competence, despite everything else - a baby on the way, her husband's infidelity, a crumbling marriage - and if Maka is anything, she is certainly her mother's daughter. And goddammit, she can get her apartment looking spotless, with or without her lazy, no-good, tall-and-actually-quite-good-at-dusting-the-ceiling-fan roommate.

With her hair tied up in twintails, Maka shamelessly revs up the vacuum and makes her rounds up and down the hall. She knocks her knuckles against Soul's bedroom door on each pass, just for good measure. His resulting groan is barely muted beneath the hum of their decrepit vacuum.

It's not that they live surrounded by filth by any means, but the apartment is certainly lived in, and Maka works long hours and Soul overnight, so sometimes routine cleaning doesn't get done. Dishes are often washed, and they make trips to the laundromat together, but things like dusting and cleaning the bathroom sink's drain and vacuuming, apparently, sometimes get overlooked. It's hard, working up the energy to clean by herself, while thinking about Soul, plucking away at his keyboard, looking ridiculously moody and handsome elsewhere. And if she's not the one putting in the elbow grease and scrubbing down the fridge, well, Soul's certainly not about to do it. His knees crack and he groans everytime he has to kneel down, and he's only in his 20s.

She makes a mental note to get on him about that. He's too young to be falling apart. Bad posture is tearing her newly minted maybe-boyfriend apart, and they haven't even gotten to second base yet. It's _unfair,_ thinking about it; those pretty hands of his are distracting on even a good day, and yet the wannabe-geezer still manages to be both the most attractive man she's ever seen and a creaky bag of bones in the same breath.

It makes no sense. He makes no sense. Or, er- maybe she's the one who makes no sense. Brows furrowed, she kicks his door for good measure, and Soul grunts from inside. "Makaaaaaaaaa."

"Get up, sleepyhead!" she scolds, absolutely not thinking of legs and hips and back, ugh. What is the point, if she can't seem to keep her brain off of him? "You still need to get up and ready - we're picking Wes up at the airport in a couple of hours and I can't make your bed while you're in it."

He grumbles, and faintly, Maka can hear him begin to stir within the confines of his bedroom. Their vacuum sputters, wheezing like maybe it is the true old man of the apartment, and Maka hastily finishes vacuuming before it has the chance to die in her hands.

"Come on, baby," she mutters, "you can do it, just a little more and you can sleep."

Soul's bedroom door creaks behind her, and he's rumbling, "'ssat a promise?" as she spins around to face him.

He's delightfully ruffled, sleepy eyes and bedhead and- and practically naked, for goodness' sake, she realizes with a jolt, swiftly spinning back around to avoid gawking at him. It's his apartment just as much as it is hers, she supposes, and there is no real rule preventing him from waltzing out of his room in nothing more than his underwear, but still- a little warning would be nice! Her poor heart cannot handle such sudden nudity; she is just one girl, armed with nothing more than a wheezing vacuum and a hummingbird heart, and he's- he's-!

 _Tall._ Broader than he has any right to be, lazy thing that he is. What happened to that shy boy she's grown to know and love? He's never just pranced around in nothing more than his boxers - not while she was home, at least. Is this his routine, while she is away at work? Christening their halls with his bare skin and stubbly jaw?

"Soul!" she gasps, burning bright. The vacuum revs and screeches, and Maka bends to yank the cord from the outlet, fidgeting as his door shuts behind her. "Put some clothes on, would you?"

He yawns, then shuffles toward the bathroom door. Maka watches his shadow through the corner of her eye, busying herself with coiling the cord around her forearm. "You've never called me baby before," he says, sounding faintly amused.

She will never. "I was talking to the old man."

"What, white hair isn't enough for you? Geez, Albarn."

Maka spins around, miffed, pigtails slapping her shoulders. "You-!" _Naked._ Practically naked, and he's rubbing his stomach idly, watching her through his lashes. Dandelion fuzz, goodness, and rising suns beneath them. There's so much blatant boyskin on display and it's too much for her, and she struggles valiantly to keep her eyes on his face and not his treasure trail, or his prominent hipbones, or- or that v, leading beneath his waistband, places Maka doesn't dare look.

And he crooks a smile, dimple and all. "I'm gonna take a shower," he says slowly, grin widening. "Like you told me to."

He knows all of her buttons. It's impossible for him not to, not while they've lived together for so long- she's scolded him a thousand times for leaving his underwear on the bathroom floor, for leaving the toilet seat up, for drinking directly out of her milk carton, and yet she still falls for it every time. Helpless, she's so helpless when it comes to him, and he seems to take perverse pride in what sway he has over her, grinning as she fidgets and crosses her arms over her chest, staring pointedly at his jaw.

"Then get in the shower, Soul."

"Is that an order?" he asks cheekily.

Apparently, with all of his cards already spread out on the table, he has ceased giving a shit about being self conscious around her. Pre-Reunion Soul would have never subjected her to such a show. Hell, Pre-Reunion Soul would have danced around her, waited until she'd begun cleaning her own room before shuffling into the bathroom without a peep, head hung.

Maka bites her lip. It's… it's not really a bad thing, for him to feel so comfortable in his own skin around her. And he's certainly easy on the eyes, all things considered. Her boyfriend ( _boyfriend?_ he _is_ her boyfriend, isn't he?) is handsome. Kind of lanky, but he still has his own charm about him, and there's never really been anyone else Maka's found herself so magnetized to. Somewhere along the line, her gaze begins to drift downward, and she only catches herself staring at his belly button when he clears his throat and she can practically feel her fingertips dripping red.

Guilty guilty. And she's the one who wants to take it slow, too. _Ugh._

"Hey," he says, suddenly quite serious, reaching out to twirl a pigtail between his fingers. "Uh."

Whatever he's going to say, she's not sure she'll be able to take it. An apology, maybe? But then, for what? Being comfortable enough in his skin to not cover up in his own home, around his own partner? Maka burns brighter just thinking about it, and brushes her thumb over the delicate skin of his wrist. "You're going to catch a cold, you nudist."

Soul laughs, kind of. More like a relieved exhale of breath, really. "You know Wes really isn't going to give a shit if the apartment looks lived in. 'm his brother, he kind of knows what he's getting into."

"But if he's going to sleep in your room, he kind of needs to be able to find the _bed._ "

His brows furrow at that. "My room is not that messy. And _you_ find the bed just fine, thanks."

"I live here. A-and you- you _lead me in there_ ," she says, sputtering, heat rising impossibly. Soul smiles again, but there's color in his cheeks, too. Every night she has spent in Soul's bed since that night has been either instigated by him and his clingy, cuddle-hungry ways or a mutual, exhausted talk-session, and he'd lead her to his room with a hand in hers and a soft look in his eyes. "Don't innuendo me, Evans."

He shrugs guiltlessly. "You walk right into 'em. Besides," he says, and twirls her hair again before giving a gentle tug, and like a dog on a leash, she's lead right to him, and he's right there, leaning down, and Maka could count every faint eyelash, if he wasn't moving closer.

 _Besides._ His mouth is warm, if a little sluggish, but he's probably still too sleepy to really chase away the monsters hiding under his bed, so it's wet and soft and good and her knees melt into useless goo. Maka grasps the doorframe as Soul's hand leaves her hair to cup her face instead, cradling her cheek against his palm as he eases her embarrassed, nervously fluttering heart to a sated rumble. She stands on her toes for better leverage, straining to kiss him even as he backs away, smiling crookedly. To dangle something so precious before her, just to take it away- it's cruel, she thinks, standing tall on her toes.

His thumb brushes along her cheek languidly. "Hmm."

"Besides _what,_ " she finally asks, heart in her throat. "Soul."

He has such pretty, pretty hands, soft fingers and palms. Soul has perfect permission to cradle her face in his hands all day, if it means he'll look at her the same way, heated eyes and bitten lip. "It'll be hard to tease you while Wes is here. Gotta make the most of the time we have now."

"You don't _have_ to tease me."

"What's the fun in that?" He's still teasing her, but he brushes her bangs from her eyes in the same breath and kisses her nose shortly after, then her forehead. Such gentle attention from a boy wearing nothing but his underwear.

How, she wonders, is she ever supposed to think of anything else while he's around? It's frustrating, the way one easy grin can melt her concentration; she's not this girl, and she's never been this girl before, but he- there's something about him, and his eyes, and his hands, and - most importantly - the way he makes her feel, so safe and secure. He's home. As much as a person can be home, anyway, and for a girl like herself, so previously disinterested in the idea of marriage and happily ever after (and romance, ugh) it's a lot. Like _a lot_ a lot.

"He'll only be here for a week," she finds herself saying mindlessly, still thinking of soft lips and smart tongues and how his kiss might feel in other places, too. Whether such a statement is meant to comfort him or _her,_ she's unsure.

There's ancient dread in Soul's sigh. "Wes knows how to overstay his welcome."

"He's your _brother,_ Soul."

"Drop the 'r'. He's my _bother,_ " Soul insists, then leans back and knocks his knuckles briefly against her forehead. It should absolutely not be romantic, but they've always been a little different about things like attraction and the like; regardless, there's still a flutter in her chest, and she sinks down to stand flat-footed again, pouting mildly. "Don't give me that look, Albarn. If your old man was staying with us you'd be the same way."

"Papa would catcall at women in the hallway on the way here."

"Wes is absolutely going to get a few numbers before he leaves and you know it," Soul says, dragging a hand through his hair. It's shorter, now, and stands up every which-way, and somehow doing nothing to lessen the poor guy's cowlick. "He'll give us shit, too."

She leans against the doorframe and smiles wryly as the plastic rings of the curtain shriek, yanked back to reveal their homey little shower. "He always gives us shit, Soul. Mostly you. It's his thing."

"I hate it."

"He loves you," she sing-songs. "It's how he shows his love."

He huffs, and the shower groggily spills to life. Maka blinks, and then Soul's raising a brow at her, quietly tugging at the waistband of his boxers, and- oh, right. He'd been about to shower, and even if- even if she was feeling confident and brave enough to, erm, introduce just how she would like to show Soul her love, they're kind of on a time constraint. Still, though, despite her best efforts, she lingers for a moment, teetering on the cusp of something _frisky_ and the bubbling, age-old insecurities that lurk deep within her bones.

And then she falls back, grappling for the vacuum, busying herself as to focus on anything but the way he'd looked at her. The way he's still looking at her, knelt over, backside presented to him, in her cotton sleep shorts and knee-high socks.

"He doesn't have to tease me so much," Soul says, and there's a gruffness to his voice that Maka trips over. Nearly splits her head open in the apartment hallway because of it. That roughness, that grit- he's still standing there in the damn bathroom, underwear hanging low on his hips, a quiet question burning beneath the snowy white of his lashes.

But she is not yet brave enough to carry forth. "Where's the fun in that?" Maka parrots, and through the corner of her eye she catches him shaking his head, half-smile on his face, as he nudges the bathroom door shut.

It's only after the shower sings to life that she realizes she's been conned into cleaning his room, too. A Soul Evans shower lasts no less than thirty minutes, and Wes won't pick himself up from the airport.

.

"I spy with my little eye somethiiiiiing… _prickly_."

Soul heaves a long-suffering sigh and sinks further back into the cushion of the booth. "For fuck's sake, Wes, could you spy something other than me?"

It's startling, sometimes, how alike the two look. Even knowing them for at least half of her life, sometimes it still catches her off guard; Maka sits across from the two brothers, sipping her lemonade, watching as Wes cracks Soul's shit-eating grin, watching as Soul sinks back, hair no longer shaggy enough to hide behind. It's almost like they're twins, though only in looks. Even in aesthetics, there is still a clear definition between Wes's crisp, ironed shirts and Soul's wrinkled, day-old band tees.

Still, though, the resemblance is uncanny. Especially with Soul's new haircut - if there was ever a question about whether Soul was truly an Evans, well, here is the answer; he's practically Wes's doppleganger, only with a slightly less square jaw and darker eyes.

It makes her head spin a little. She's kissed lips like those. She's enjoyed kissing lips like those, but gawking at Wes just isn't the same. For goodness' sake, Soul's the spitting image of his big brother, and by all means, if she's apparently attracted to the younger Evans, shouldn't she be at least a little bit into his older brother? Because not even three hours ago, she'd felt warm and silly, standing in their apartment hallway, eyes greedily roving the expanse of Soul's bare chest, but Wes - Wes is probably just as physically attractive as her roommate but he doesn't inspire a damn thing like it in her.

Strange.

"Prickly little porcupine," Wes says affectionately, leaning toward his younger brother and bumping shoulders amiably. "It's been much too long since I've gotten to see you! It's not my fault you do a fantastic job of avoiding family get-togethers and holidays. We missed you at Christmas dinner, Soul. Mother was not pleased."

He huffs and slouches toward the window, chin in hand, looking ridiculously angsty and put upon. "Had to visit Maka's mom, I told you that. Wasn't about to let her travel halfway across the country on her own, y'know."

"Ah," Wes sighs, nodding. " _Right._ Had to meet the parents."

Try as he might to hide it, there's still a hint of pink warming his features, and Soul turns toward the sun, perhaps in an attempt to let the sunlight wash him out. "I've met her mother before, asshole."

"I'm _right here,_ you know."

No good deed goes unpunished. It seems, by drawing attention away from her blushing boy-something, the fates (and Wes) have decided it is her turn to be grilled. Wes smiles into his cup of coffee, sighing as the cup clinks on the dish. "How rude of me. How was Christmas, Maka, with Soul and your mother? I hope my baby brother left a good impression on his in laws."

It's always been like this, Wes teasing them, playfully nudging them together, but it feels different, now that there is some truth to it. Ah. Perhaps she should stare directly into the sunlight, too, because there's no way she's not blushing as well. She's cursed; being this fair skinned and susceptible to her emotions has left her an open book, coloring so easily, a freckled, rosy mess.

Soul seems to be faring no better. He raises a brow at her, fingers drumming on his cheek. _Had he_ left a good impression on his potential in laws?

"Mama's met Soul plenty of times before," Maka answers, sitting taller in her seat, circling a finger around the rim of her glass. "She likes him about as much as she likes anyone else, I guess."

Soul snorts. "She likes _you,_ dweeblord."

"I'm her daughter, she's biased," she blurts defensively. To have conversation centered around her mother so casually - it's almost cruel, she thinks, as her stomach twists, unsettled. She thinks of her Mama, with a new baby girl bouncing on her hip, the same no-nonsense hardness in her eyes as Maka'd impulsively reached for Soul's sleeve, and suddenly her appetite is nonexistent. Maka swallows thickly. "... Besides, _Papa's_ the one he should be worried about impressing."

"Ugh, can we _not._ "

Wes seems almost giddy, He scoots forward, hand reaching out to jostle his brother's shoulder. "Her old man still giving you a hard time? It's been, what, ten years, now?"

"He's the _worst,_ " Maka says, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know what he's so worried about. Soul's the biggest wet blanket I've ever met."

" **Hey.** "

It's all in good fun. This is how they work, after all. They tease and pick and prod and fall together, despite everything else. Support each other, through thick and thin, wayward mothers and expectant parents, and Maka taps his foot with her toes, shooting him a secret, tiny smile.

And he grins, too, leaning partially out of the sun, his hair stark, startling white in the harsh light. "'Least I can stay up past midnight."

"At least I don't cry at the end of Old Yeller!"

His foot taps back, lightly, at her bare ankles, her shin. The toe of his boot is cold, and she will not shiver beneath Wes's watchful eye, but there is a delightful thrill in playing footsies in public. What a fun little secret, barely hidden away, and oh, Soul's so cute when he's trying to bite back a laugh. He shouldn't be laughing. She's dragging him, dammit, like a good best friend does.

"Didn't _cry,_ " he insists, "Vinegar in my eye."

"Then wash your hands before you rub your face. Duh!"

Wes shakes his head and sips his coffee. Beneath the table, Maka's slipped her sandal off and kicks a foot up to rub just below Soul's knee, and baby bro Evans sits tall, lips pressed together tightly.

 _Checkmate,_ she thinks, grinning into her lemonade.

.

"So, how long have you been playing tonsil tennis with my baby brother?"

Maka's onion rings attempt to make a swift exit.

"Wh-!" She chokes, grappling for a glass of anything, and because the universe must hate her (or enjoys playing cruel, cruel jokes) her hands find Soul's soda, of all things. And, well, she is still sort of coughing around fried crispiness, and her lemonade's long gone at this point, so she downs the drink anyway, despite Wes's bemused grin.

He is entirely too smug. "That long, huh?"

" _Excuse me?"_ she asks, once her windpipe is clear and she has a better grasp on reality. Here she'd been, aimlessly daydreaming while staring out the window like she was starring in some sort of mid-2000's music video, perfectly harmless and vulnerable while her kissing partner slash probaby boyfriend beelined for the toilets. She'd thought herself so safe, too, as if Wes wouldn't strike while Soul wasn't around to amusingly complain and pout. How wrong she'd been.

The fates are cruel. She glares at him as she nudges Soul's glass back to his side of the booth, silently berating herself for sucking down her drink before their meals had even arrived. Where's their server, anyway? A refill would have at least saved her from putting on a show and indirectly kissing Wes's baby brother before his very eyes. _Heck._

"Was it too crude of me?" Wes wonders aloud, still smiling in that infuriating way. He leans back in his seat and at least has the grace to try and iron out his expression into something a little less satisfied. "Sorry. Let me rephrase: how long have you been kissing our dear beloved edgelord?"

Maka makes tiny panicky flutters with her hands before mashing them to her lap. "W-we're not, um! I mean." This is not good. Even she's not entirely clear on the situation herself; _we'll take it slow_ , he'd said, but she's still unsure if that means they're formally dating or if they're just really good friends who touch each other's butts and swap spit. Can they be going steady if they've never gone out on an actual date? And- and if they are dating, or, or whatever they're going to call it, is she in the clear to tell Wes? Isn't it sort of Soul's job, or choice to make, or whatever?

He leans forward and brushes a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It's not at all suggestive and every bit parental, and she's a little pleased that thirteen-year-old Maka does not make a swift return and melt. "I'd like nieces and nephews to spoil rotten someday, you know," he says grandly. "Mum and I have been waiting years for you two to figure out what's going on between you. We only have so many pretty years left for family photos."

Somehow, Maka thinks the Evanses have enough funds to keep themselves looking wrinkle-free for many years to come. Besides, they've sort of landed the genetic jackpot anyway, if Wes's award-winning smile is any evidence.

Denial is the only option. She cannot think about babies ever after with Soul, not yet. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Soul's right," he says, smiling maddeningly. "You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"H-He said that? To you?" Christ, she may never retain her normal coloring. She shoots a look over her shoulder, wondering what the hell could be taking her roommate so long, wondering why he's so cruelly damned her to this conversation alone. "Why would he- ugh, he's the worst, that explains this morning-"

Wes laughs brightly. "He didn't!"

" _-You!"_

He holds his hands up in apology, or maybe _surrender_ \- Wes can't be forgetful enough to not remember her temper, no way - and plucks an onion ring from her plate. "You are cute, though, when you blush. He is too. And you're grossly obvious, flirting over lunch. I was not born yesterday, you know."

Thiiiis is not her call to make. This is Soul's. Wes is his brother, and his loud-mouth brother will tell his mother, and his mother will blow up Soul's cellphone until he's forced to grow up and interact with his family. It is not Maka's place to spill the beans for him - if there are even beans to spill. _Besides_ , she thinks, gripping the fabric of her skirt in her lap, why the hell does everyone care so much anyway? Can't they just exist and try to figure it out themselves before announcing to the world that, yes, Maka Albarn has indeed stuffed her tongue down Soul Evans's throat, more on page 10!

It's frustrating. Maka can barely make sense of her feelings in her head, never mind admit them aloud to Wes, of all people. "I do not flirt."

"You might not twirl your pigtail around your finger or anything, but you have a way about you," Wes says, chomping on _her_ meal. "Bickering and such."

That's not even plausible evidence. They bicker more often than they make out. "We've _always_ done that, Wes. It definitely doesn't count."

" _What_ doesn't count?"

Oh, so _now_ he decides to show up. How hilariously inconvenient, for him to only catch the awkward tail end of the conversation. She glares at him, perhaps a bit unreasonably, and Soul dwindles beneath her misplaced ire, crumbling like bricks. "Uh? Should I, uh, go back to the bathroom?"

"Don't you _dare,_ " she hisses, and Wes cackles.

"Come, sit down, little brother," Wes coos, scooting toward the wall and patting the worn plastic of the booth amiably. "I was just grilling your dear girlfriend here on how long you two have been making kissy face at one another. You know. Without letting your beloved brother know, _Soul._ "

He looks helplessly at her. Flounders like a fish out of water for a second, before resuming the comfortable role of deep, deep denial, and Maka shrinks down in her seat, dragging a hand down her face. "I don't know what you're talking about," Soul deadpans, expression tight.

His brother simpers. "I saw the footsies."

"Cool guys do not play footsies. You're seeing shit, Wes. Been to the eye doctor lately, bro? Think maybe your age is catching up to you."

It seems this is their method of choice, now - deny, deny, deny. They are Soul and Maka, best friends, childhood pals, prom dates and roommates, never lovers, never to the public. It sort of stings, for a moment, as she watches Soul drop down to sit, scowling. Stings, because she thinks of his hands, and how right they've felt in hers, or the way he kisses her brow goodnight, how he watches her as she moves through the room, early in the morning, through sleepy eyes. It's special, to her, what they share, what she feels for him - special, and stifling it, even now, leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

But this is what she wanted, isn't it? Take it slow. Give herself time to adjust to such newness in their relationship. And Soul, with his family - of course he wouldn't want to spill the beans to Wes, not yet; god, his mother would have a field day, knowing her youngest born wasn't as lonely as she thought, that he was on his way to his own happily ever after.

She burns thinking about it. _Happily ever after._ In _secret._

.

It's not like it's anyone's business but theirs anyway. What's the big deal? So what, sometimes they kiss each other. Sometimes, they sleep together, and sometimes Maka doesn't wear pants and it's not weird, not really; they're comfortable with each other, in whatever odd, halfway state of mind they've begun drifting, and she can't understand why anyone else would _care so much_.

She does not know how she feels about marriage. It's… weird. And kind of terrifying; once upon a time, Mama and Papa had been stupid in love with each other, despite everything else, had had the world at their feet, nearly wildly successful, and then - and then Mama had gotten pregnant, Papa had bought her a ring, and ten years later there were divorce papers and a pigtailed daughter watching her mother slam the door as she left and never looked back. It's _terrifying,_ thinking about how a promise of _forever_ can be broken so easily, and- and Soul-

It can't happen like that. She just _can't_. She loves him, god, she loves him, but- and she trusts him more than anything else, but losing him like that would be catastrophic. He's Soul, and before he is her maybe-boyfriend, he is her oldest friend. Her other half.

A ring on their fingers cannot change that. Can't cement it. Just a frivolous little jewel, right? Something for her to inevitably lose or break, something for Soul to stress needlessly over.

Maka groans and pulls her night shirt over her head. It's all so annoying. Of course she loves him, and of course she wants to be with him, but it's all so needlessly complicated! There are too many variables to worry about, too many what-ifs. Everyone teases them about being a _thing_ , but what if Soul's parents don't actually approve of him dating a nobody like her? What if Mama is right, and men just cannot be trusted?

What if she'll never be ready, and Soul will be left to wait and grasp at her coattails forever?

The bedroom door clicks shut. Hall light washes over the walls before wiping into darkness again, and Maka looks over her shoulder to watch Soul pad his way over to her.

He rubs the back of his neck and yawns. "The devil has finally been put to sleep."

"What, without Egyptian cotton sheets?"

Soul grimaces, then rubs his shoulder. "He's such a princess. I told him we don't have the disposable income he has to just blow on things, but does he care? Noooo. His skin is _sensitive._ He needs _silk._ "

"You're kind of a princess too, you know."

"I resent that. My eyeliner is 45 bucks, not pushing triple digits. I'm not putting cheap shit near my eyes."

She should laugh, but the tightness in her chest is still leftover from lunch, and she's never been very good at hiding how she feels. Heart on her sleeve Albarn, now and forever, and he is Soul, and his expression softens, blinking at her, eyes warm and laser-bright.

"You okay?"

No, but how can she explain the sinking feeling in her stomach? _Sorry, Soul, but watching you deny your feelings for me made me sad?_ What is there to say? She is needy, and she doesn't know what to do about it. Her feelings don't make sense, and everything is new. She is scared, and she'll never admit it. Romance makes her annoyingly vulnerable.

Maka shrugs instead. Flings her hair elastic at her desk and then melts bonelessly into her bed, groaning. "I don't know."

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and he crawls his way over to her carefully, springs squeaking. Her window's cracked open, and the night air is chilly, but his skin is warmer than anything else and she's intrigued; watching the way his face heats up as she runs a hand up his arm is almost cathartic. It's powerful, having any bit of control over his expression; Soul bites his lip as she trails her way down his torso, slipping curious fingers beneath the hem of his shirt.

He sighs, and that _something_ sinking in her gut stirs, blooms, melts her alive. "Maka."

Mesmerized by the way the muscles in his abdomen move as he flutters beneath her touch, she hums, distracted. His eyes are loaded guns, though, and before she can further explore such uncharted territory he's lurching over her, taking her wrists into his hands and pinning her down. Forehead to forehead, he breathes her name again, and Maka forgets, for a moment, how to do such a thing herself.

"Maka."

"... Soul," she manages, finally. " _Soul,_ what?"

His lashes are so pretty. Long, and fluttery, and- it's not fair, who gave him the right to have eyelashes so long and graceful. "What'd he say to you?"

Oh. Oh, right. _That._ The thing she's been overthinking for nearly half a day now. Funny, how she can flip-flop between such extremes - daydreaming about the morning, and they way he'd kissed her, made her feel warm and careless with just his lips, and then worrying over whether or not she should spill the beans to Wes, if Soul is embarrassed to be with her, trying to figure out why she'd been so hurt by the denial she'd been using to shield herself only moments before.

She doesn't make sense. "I don't make sense."

"You've _never_ made sense, brainiac," he says, then leans back, smiling sleepily. "It's your thing. I can't keep up with that big brain of yours."

"I'm sorry."

"Eh, I'm used to you. Wouldn't change you, you know that." Soul shrugs. "But really, Maka, what's bugging you? 'Cause if Wes was running his mouth, I can say something, I guess-"

"No, no, he just-" Wants to know the truth? "... He's just like everyone else. He wants to know too much."

"Too much?"

"About _us,_ " she says, and Soul's fingers inch their way to hers, too. Fingers laced has always been their thing. It gives her courage. Makes her feel like she can do anything, no matter the challenge. "Like _everyone else does!_ What does it matter, if we kiss each other? Why does everyone want to know about it so badly? I-I mean, of course I love you, a-and I'm happy with you, but-"

"- But it's none of his business," Soul finishes, with a curious set to his brow. "Yeah, I know."

It's none of his business, but there had still been a part of her, no matter how small, that'd wanted him to tell the truth. And it makes no sense.

Maka swallows and leans her head back, glaring at the ceiling. "I _hate it._ Everyone's so nosy. I don't even know what I'm doing, so how am I supposed to reason it out to them? Am I dating you?"

He flops down next to her, one hand still in hers, and squeezes tight. "I mean, we make out."

"I think friends make out sometimes?"

His laugh is brief, but free. "We're friends too, though. And we make out. And I kind of really love you a lot, so." She's tugged forward, and he's right there, again, so close she could nearly count every snowy lash. "I think we're dating?"

God, they're so backwards. "Do you _want_ to date me?"

"Did you miss the part where I said I love you? I just, I'unno," he shrugs, then, leans forward to kiss her nose, and she feels herself go pink, annoyingly so. "Thought you were unsure, so I didn't wanna push it. Some things take time, right? Good things come to those who wait. And I'd wait forever for you, if that's what you want."

The tightness constricting her chest fizzles and makes way for the familiar confusing, stifling heat she so associates with him these days. Comfortable, but strange, and new, and - and _she's never felt this way with anyone else,_ so how is she supposed to put a name to it? She thinks of him then, with paint on his face, butterflies, and her back against the living room carpet, as he repaid the favor, and her heart is impossibly full.

"What if you have to wait forever?"

"... Do you not want to date me?" And try as he might go hide it, Maka can see the exact moment his hope breaks.

"N-No, I- I mean _yes,_ I want to date you, but-" She is the worst at this. "What if you have to wait forever for me to get my shit together? I don't- I don't know if I'll ever want to get married, Soul, or have kids. What if I never want kids, and your mom thinks I'm a terrible, selfish woman, and you'll never have cute little babies to snuggle with, and-?!" And how is she supposed to _breathe,_ knowing she could be holding him back from such mythical normalcy? She is a deathbringer, a legacy desperately grappling for a semblance of routine, and how can she continue on, knowing he may never have these expected things so hardwired into a relationship? "... I don't want to hold you back."

He leans back. Stares at her. Sort of looks like he's swallowed something sour. "Who said anything about marriage?"

" _Wes!"_ She squirms, tugging at her hair. "Everyone! _Everyone_ talks about marriage! Kid is married, for goodness' sake, and Blake's head over heels for Tsubaki!"

Soul shakes his head, cheek pressed to her pillow. There are connotations, having him in her bed, and they're not lost on her. White hair on her pillowcase, long legs tangled with hers, in a place so privately hers. "I didn't say anything about marriage, though."

"Do you want to get married someday, Soul?"

He fidgets, then, finally uncomfortable. She squeezes his hand in hers to offer back some of the courage she'd borrowed. "I don't know. Maybe? It's not really something I'd thought about a lot before…"

"Before?" she squeaks.

"... Always just kind of thought I'd be with you forever. I just never really thought about the reason, I guess," he admits, shrugging, and barely, she can make him out in the dark, blushing a pretty pink. He's cute, and it frustrates her; she shouldn't want to kiss him, right there on one rosy cheek, not while they're discussing serious things like the future of their maybe-relationship. "You're a part of me. No matter what, I'm going to be around you. And if that means marrying you, I'm down? But if not, that's… that's still cool. I just want to be with you, Maka. In whatever way you'll have me."

She sort of feels like hiding her face in his shirt and never coming up for air again, but it is unreasonable and childish, to avoid her problems. Talking it over will keep them from dancing around each other again, like marionettes, but it's hard, putting what she feels for him into words. And it's frustrating, being the bookworm between them, the one who so prides herself on vocabulary and silly things like IQ scores, and not being able to properly communicate.

So she sighs instead, and mashes her free hand over her face. "I'm bad at this."

"... I'm not better," Soul says, voice gruff. "I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, half of the time. I just like being around you, and I'm kind of clingy, so-"

"You're not," she half-laughs, deep in suffering. " _I'm_ the clingy one. I can't seem to go a few hours without thinking about you, even when I'm at work. It's annoying. I think Kid's going to talk to me about it and I don't know how to tell him I've become a useless blob who can't seem to do anything but daydream about kissing. It's just-" she grasps for him, then, the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer. "... It's not me."

Her admittance seems to fuel him, and his arm is heavy as it links around her waist, pulling her flush against him. They've cuddled in bed thousands of times, but there is still a whimsical newness to it, now that they're sort of together. Which reminds her. "Are we dating?"

"... Thought we were?"

"We haven't gone on a date," she says, and he raises his brows, seemingly surprised. "Can we be dating if we've never gone on a date?"

"Could fix that, you know."

But who will pay? They split rent and all of the bills. They're not married, but they've already started pooling funds. Heck, they've been doing it since they were in college. It's not like one can treat the other, this way - they've long since become a well-oiled machine, cohabiting together, functioning together.

They're so _backwards._

She answers him with a kiss instead. And Soul seems to have no problem with dropping the conversation, because his hands grasp her hips and hold tight, and his tongue is so warm against hers, so delightfully sly. They're backwards, but she supposes they'll just have to retrace their steps, maybe figure out how to find their way without getting all turned around again.

(He's solid over her, and how can she think of anything else, when he's got a hand in her hair and the other inching close to an aching breast?)


	12. part twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [shows up three months late with filler] 
> 
> writing is my passion

**PART 12**

**SOUL**

.

Just this once, he thinks he sees an angel.

Soul is not a religious guy. That's always been more of his mother's scene, or Tsubaki's, or- not his, anyway. He doesn't believe in things like angels, and if he did, he certainly wouldn't associate them with Maka, of all people; and yes, okay, she is lovely, and she is undoubtedly kind, but his girlfriend is also fiery, also reckless and made of hard edges. No girl can be an angel while so effortlessly welcoming him and his old demons, embracing the darkness that bleeds from beneath his bed like shadows - no girl can be an angel while harboring _her own_ darkness and using it as a weapon.

Still. There is a shining, burst of a moment where he considers it, while Maka's sitting and parting his black curtains and glancing at him from over her shoulder. In that brief second, with the sunlight haloing her, Soul thinks he sees an angel in her, impossibly beautiful, perilously dangerous.

His heart flutters. The sunlight burns his eyes, and Soul rubs a palm over his chest, watching her smile softly, cheeks rosy, hair a tousled, golden mess and _wow,_ he thinks, struck. _Wow,_ he is _disgustingly_ in love.

And it's while he's lost in this enamored, heart-eyed daydream that Maka crawls her way over and plants one on him.

It is not chaste. Not gentle. Quite wet, actually, and _warm,_ with her hands curling in the worn fabric of his shirt, and his hand is sifting through her hair out of impulse, cupping her cheek, pulling her closer. They fall together, in the early morning glow, Maka blanketed over him, thighs straddling his hips, and ooh, hm. She's soft in ways he hadn't expected, so uncharacteristic of take-no-shit, arm-wrestling champ Albarn; her hips do a delightful little wiggle in his hands, and then she dips low, grinding into him in the most mind melting, jaw dropping sort of way.

This is decidedly not slow.

His mind is mush. He knows very well he should say something, perhaps, about the direction this is taking - how, if she continues working herself against his stiff cock, things are going to get _messy,_ and _quickly_ \- but his tongue feels heavy and a little stupid as she works herself against him some more. They've never done this before, dry humping, or grinding, or whatever - but she's eerily good at it, and she's so soft and warm, there, between her trembling thighs, and he's been hooked since the moment she crawled on top of him.

"Guh," he finally manages, squeezing her hips in his hands, holding her steady. "Mmmaka, hey."

She watches him with starlit eyes and, god, have they always been that green? Maka leans over him, balancing on her palms, hair curtaining around them in ashen waves. She takes a breath, sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, watches him.

Fuck, she's pretty.

"You're so hard," she says innocently, and Soul nearly chokes on his own spit. "Is all that for me?"

Christ, she's trying to talk dirty. He's not sure he knows how. Words have always been her forte, and- and even if she's not good, and ends up stuttering and blushing through saying the word 'dick', he knows without a doubt he'll still find it the most seductive thing he's ever heard.

So he sputters, for a moment, swallowing, struggling to collect his thoughts. Presently, his brain has become a bit fuzzy, like white noise on an old tv, and thinking anything but _Maka_ and _sex_ is admittedly difficult. It's all new, feeling this way, and his tongue is so heavy, glued to the roof of his mouth.

"You're stupid hot," he admits, finally. Squeezes her hips again and she sighs, so pleased, and he allows her to rock against him again, slow and deliberate. He twitches beneath the worn flannel of his pajamas, so hard it's beginning to hurt.

She smiles, pleased. "Yeah?"

He is dying, jesus fuck, is that her hand, petting him? Is that his voice, a squawking, broken yelp? He can play this game, too. Brandish his words like a weapon and paint her cheeks pink. Can she feel it? What she does to him?

There's no way she _doesn't_ know, not while she's got that devious little hand of hers dipping beneath his waistband. Soul sucks in a breath and tries so very hard not to melt beneath her eager ministrations, but she's Maka, and he's never really stood a chance, not really. It's not outside a shitty dive bar, not the cold brick of a wall behind him as some girl he barely knows tries to rub him off- it's _Maka,_ and he's held her hand and brushed back her tears and knows every adorable freckle stippling along her nose.

He melts. He melts so hard, like soft-serve ice cream.

"Uaaa _aah,_ _Maka,_ " he grouses, his own hands tight on her waist. Her nails drag down his abdomen, over the crease of his thigh, and he is a caged bird, desperate to break free. Feels a bit monstrous, for a moment, with the way his heart slams in his chest, thundering, smashing- feels gross, even, for having such a paramount reaction to something somebody his age surely must be used to, but it's new for him, still. New, and it's _Maka,_ for fuck's sake.

 _Maka._ Clean-cut, prim Maka, with a pretty smile and bright eyes and the most darling nipples he's ever seen. He cannot forget, no matter how hard he tries.

(Ugh. _Hard._ For Maka. _Stupidly_ hard. Who is he?)

"My _boyfriend,_ " she says cheekily. His heart's overwhelming rhythm slams into double time.

That he is. They'd talked about it. Like proper adults, even. Feelings bared and all.

Such domesticity should not make him blush. Her hand cupping him through his boxers should be the thing making his pulse race and cheeks pink, but it's not. He is a simple man, he thinks, as he bites his lip and lets himself budge his hips, just a bit. He does not need a bombshell in his bed, does not need a lavish home, filled with expensive things and trophies - he just needs Maka, apparently. Just needs her familiar hands, and her familiar smile, and the way her eyes light up when he slides his hands down her thighs.

There is something about watching her take charge that pleases him deeply. Something about that spark in her eye, the determined, powerful way she leans over him and braces her hands on his shoulders as she grinds against him, instead of just wielding him as she does. Her neck is long and slender, and yet so far away, and there's a deep, almost basic instinct that wants to kiss it, wants to run his teeth along her pale skin and mark her, maybe.

He runs his tongue over his teeth instead and further cradles her hips in his hands. She's fluid in her movements - more graceful than he can ever remember her - and the friction between them is almost dreamy, in a way. All phantom goodness and hazy, a low purr rumbling deep in his chest, not unlike a snore, and she- she _sighs_ in the most maddening way, all breathy and high pitched. It's nothing like he's experienced before with her; usually, she is commanding, in that whipcrack smart way of hers. She's sharp tongued, quick-witted, sometimes infuriatingly know-it-all and nagging, but for now, in this brief, blood-burning moment, she's soft.

She laughs, then, wordlessly, and takes his hand. And he blushes all the more, thinking this is it, this is the peak of his existence - she's going to lace her fingers between his and lean over, taste his mouth, fulfill every other sappy lovelorn daydream he's ever entertained.

Soul should know better. Maka takes his hand and slips it beneath the waist of her sleep shorts, and everything he'd known previously as soft and warm have been thrown out a window.

"Fuck," he swears, and Maka gives a little delighted hum. Nudges him a little lower, even, until he's grazing soft hair and a peculiar, damp heat he'd unfamiliar with. "Y-You, ugh, never beat around the bush, do you?"

She still hums, pleased, biting her lower lip. Ah. Pretty pink trapped beneath her perfect, blunt teeth; what he wouldn't give to be the one biting, to be the one tugging and coloring her. It motivates him to venture a bit more deeply, touch her where she's never been touched by another before.

"You like me that way," Maka sighs, lashes fluttering. "You… you _like it_ when I take charge, don't you?"

He did not sign up to be read like this, thank you. Ah, but he has some control, too. Can control the way her voice pitches and her breath catches as he sinks a finger into her heat, knuckle deep. He's awash with fever, suddenly, feeling her tremble around a sensitive fingertip.

She's an angel, atop him like this. An angel without wings, eyes hard, lip sucked up beneath her teeth, with her waistband digging into his wrist. So much so that it overwhelms him, and he blinks back his own pleasure, gasping as she sighs _Soul, Soul, Soul…._

.

"... _oul_ … **Soul?** "

Sunlight isn't really a halo. What was he thinking? Light stings. He groans, squinting, wondering what circle of hell he must be in, if Maka thinks it's fine and dandy to wake him up while the sun is still high in the sky and glaring at him through his (parted?) curtains. It's ungodly, being awake at this hour. Expecting him to function is just out of the question.

He blinks. Opens and closes his mouth. Wonders, for a moment, feeling disorganized and out of his body, how he'd ended up on his side, when just seconds ago Maka had mounted him and faced her fears with boundless, worrisome courage.

 _Disoriented._ That's the word he's looking for. Up is down and down is probably also up and _Maka is not on top of him_. He's _on his side,_ arms circled around something soft and warm and _breathing_ \- aforementioned girlfriend, perhaps? - and it's so disgustingly comfortable, laying there spooning her that he nearly misses the fact that he has a King Kong mega erection.

And he's spooning her. His dick is nestled happily (and worryingly) against the curve of her ass. Soul blinks again, slowly, light glaring at him through the cracks of his curtains as the world begins to come into focus, Maka's green eyes bright as she peers at him from over her shoulder, bottom lip sucked up beneath her teeth.

Had he… had he actually dreamed that? That's- that's just so middle school of him, good god. Like- like- that's the shit fourteen year old boys dream about, definitely the shit he hadn't dreamed about, because he'd been so disinterested in everything and- wow, he really fucking wishes he wasn't so late to this one because Maka's ass is fantastic and heeeee should probably not be humping it, fuck.

Fuck. This is the opposite of slow.

He jolts back, as if burned, finally. Seconds too late, Soul yanks himself off of her, very nearly falling off of the bed in the process. She squeaks, and he yelps, and the whole romantic daze his dirty dream had cast over him parts like storm clouds.

" _Soul-!"_

Fuck him sideways. Soul yanks his comforter over his waist, as if hiding his boner will make her believe it'd never existed. See no evil. He is not gross and his body had not reacted upon sexual desire he's scarcely felt before, and she definitely had not felt him (probably) trying to rub one off on her. There is just no such thing. He is Soul, best friend extraordinaire, fan of boundaries and personal space, and that's just not a thing he does.

Not on purpose, anyway. Ugh. Maybe if he crawls all the way beneath his blankets he'll cease to exist, too. They've made out a little, of course, but never anything too-too heated. He's been so mindful of his hands, of resting them on hips and shoulders and never places that might scare her off. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't entertained thoughts of it before - hell, that dream is damning enough evidence of that - but he'd never been careless enough to actually cross that line. Nothing below the belt. She could rub her hands up his chest but he'd never returned the favor.

_("You like it when I take charge, don't you?")_

At least she's blushing, too. She turns and sits, pressing her hands to her lap. He wishes he wasn't so magnetized to the motion, watching the way the fabric of her sleep shorts folds and bunches, the way the ends of the drawstring disappear beneath her fingers.

"... Good morning?"

Yeah, it's something. Good and mortifying. "Sorry," he blurts.

Her lips press together. "For what?"

He raises his brows. Nods down at his own lap. Can't seem to stop peeking at hers, either, or that intriguing way her hands wring together. "That, uh." Massively inappropriate one-way grind session. "... Wakeup call."

She bites her lip, then. "Soul, you don't have to apologize for that."

Yes. Yes he does. "You were asleep, Maka."

"And so were you! Morning wood is normal. It's natural-"

"You are so not lecturing on my own bodily functions, oh my god, you _nerd-_ "

She pinks more, then, leaning forward, messy braids slipping over those pale shoulders of hers. "I'm not wrong for assuming you slept through health class! You were such a slacker sometimes in middle school, Soul, I used to have to bribe you to get you to go to class, and even then you'd find a way to nap through it-!"

"Depression's a bitch."

" _You're_ a- _something_ ," she says, wrinkling her nose. _Cute,_ he thinks, easing into their banter comfortably. His bookworm can't think of a good comeback so early in the morning, pre-caffeine. He'll have to tease her about it later, when he's not still basking in his own embarrassing aftermath. Can't bring herself to call him a bitch. He's totally a bitch. "Don't laugh!"

"I'm not laughing. I'm literally doing the opposite of laughing. I'm trying to apologize for-" Christ, now is not the time to get as tongue-tied as she is. Maka smirks, smug little thing she is, and he sits up, too, a little too proud to tower over her.

She huffs. "For what, Soul? I already said it's fine."

"You're a damn martyr sometimes, you know." He scrubs the back of his head, ruffling his hair. Scratches his neck, too, and watches as she pouts and crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry, Maka," he begins again, ignoring her little growl, "for… fondling you in your sleep."

" _Your sleep,_ too," she says, peculiarly pink.

" _Our_ sleep." As if it really matters that much. "It was still uncool. And. Not a great thing to wake up to, 'specially since I said we'd take it slow, so- so. Sorry."

A quiet befalls them. Noisy birds outside his window chirp chattily. Maka stares at him in that wordless, unnerving way of hers, and Soul tugs the blankets even farther over his lap because that sort of turns him on, too, in the weirdest way. He likes it when she take charge, apparently. His subconscious doesn't know the meaning of subtly. Just knows that he likes Maka just the way she is, a little bossy and a lot reckless and all blonde-haired know-it-all. Soft and sweet and brave as fucking hell.

And that he probably definitely wants her to mount him like a pony and take a ride.

She laughs, then. He snaps out of it and watches as she shakes her head and says, "We're the worst at this."

"What?"

"We're dating!" she says, very obviously, and he nods, because yes, they are. "And we're in the same bed, and you're- I'm attracted to you," she says, in that fearless, trainwreck way of hers. Commence blushing on both ends. Or- re-commence, really, although he's quite sure he never stopped and she's been glowing that pretty rosy shade since she'd startled him awake. "And it's natural, I think? To, um. Want to be closer to each other. Even if it's really new. F-For me, anyway."

It's not that new, he thinks. Maybe a little surreal, but not new. Wanting Maka - wanting to be near Maka, wanting to hold her and tuck himself around her and feel her warmth, right there, pressed to his chest - isn't new. Maybe it's just finally no longer repressed, finally unpacked, and the sheer exhilaration as finally feeling free has let things slip through his radar. Dribbling downstream. _Gushing._ Swimming, swimming, no longer caught in his emotional net.

He laughs, too. Lets out a breath and shrugs. "Still not cool of me."

"Would you stop that? It was fine. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that." She hasn't looked away from him, not once. Her eyes are the brightest headlights and he is the wobbly-kneed deer, clumsy and heart drumming in his chest.

_It's fine._

The wheels are turning. Cogs finally working in that sleep-riddled brain of his. "So… it wasn't terrible."

"No!"

"You didn't hate it."

"It surprised me," she admits, and oh, she's finally looking away, now. Picking at the drawstring of her shorts, now, with questionable interest. "But I didn't… hate it? It wasn't bad, just- I wasn't expecting it. You're usually hesitant to touch me."

He respects her space, thank you. Much like she has always respected his. "Your body is _your body,_ not mine."

Her nose scrunches up in the cutest way. "Sometimes I think you don't want to touch me."

That is just laughably far from the truth. There's not a moment where he doesn't want to touch her - and not even in a sexual way. There is comfort in her, soft skin and warm laughs and the tight way she holds his hand. The way she makes him feel like he's king of the world, even when he's got long, unkept hair and he's sluggishly taking his anxiety medication, pre-shower. Even when he'd been a teenager, gangly and uncomfortable and terrified - she'd still had a way of making him feel at home. Still had a way of making him feel a little more human.

But she is Maka, through and through. She is human, too, and not without her own feelings and insecurities. She's never been a saving grace, never an untouchable avatar of support and mothering; she's Maka, and she has her own things, too. And he has his own ways, too, as her friend. As her boy.

Her boy. It shouldn't still make him grin. Now is not the time.

He reaches out and brushes a braid back over her shoulder. "I do."

"You don't want to touch me?"

"No!" She's right. They're terrible at this. "No, I do want to touch you. Juuuust, not, uh, if you don't want me to. I'm not good at taking the initiative, most of the time. It's easier for me to let you take the lead. You're better at it."

"My lead will get us killed," she deadpans.

She's probably not wrong. But she is the brave one out of the two of them, and he'd follow her face-first into flames if it meant holding her on the other side. "Do you want me to touch you, Maka?"

Her lips press together. "I don't-"

" _BREAKFAST,"_ Wes sing-songs from down the hall. "DING DONG, LOVE BIRDS!"

She flinches.

"Ignore him," Soul says, scooting closer. He keeps his distance, still, always mindful, always careful - whether it's out of care, as she calls it, or fear, as he does, he doesn't know. - and she's chewing that lower lip, now. "His food is not edible. He lives off of takeout and our mother. Please."

She waits. Doesn't say anything, just stares at him, up through those ashy lashes of hers, waiting. When Wes makes no further attempts at rousing them from bed, and the coast has been declared clear, Soul nods at her imploringly.

Maka cracks, just a little. Shrugs her pretty shoulders and says, "I don't know? It's all still so new. It's like… when I used to think about being with somebody, someday, none of it really appealed? Not, um. Not in the intimate way. I didn't really want anybody to touch me, or... "

"... Sexually?"

She squeaks. Nods jerkily. "Yes. Like _that_."

"I don't have to touch you like that, if you don't want." He'll build a wall of pillows between them if he has to. The great wall of chastity and overwhelming respect for his partner and damning of his stupid penis. "We never have to do that."

Her hands slap onto her face. Rosy, rosy cheeks. They must be so warm, he thinks, watching her groan and take a deep breath. "No. Didn't you hear me? I didn't _hate it._ "

As if that changes anything. There is such a stark difference between not hating something and liking it. Soul doesn't hate soy milk, but he actually likes chocolate milk. Real milk. Moo moo milk, the shit that gives him, well. The shits.

So he shakes his head and reaches out for her. She meets him halfway, fingers laced, and he tries not to get too caught up in how readily she seems to reach for him, too. Like it's natural for her to do so. Easy as breathing, easy as 1-2-3, now they're touching and he gets to kiss her knuckles as if it is the most obvious next step in the world.

"That doesn't mean anything, Maka. Only wanna touch you if you want me to touch you."

That one hand still on her face slides down, and she groans. "Please don't make me say it."

"Gotta. C'mon, lady of courage."

She never gets to, though, because the coast is never truly clear.

She gets close, braces herself and everything, looks like she's about to admit her truth and throw herself readily into the fire, but before the words have a chance to leave her lips Wes makes his presence known. Bursts his way through the door in that tactless, all-encompassing way of his, Maka's frilly apron tied around his waist, frying pan still simmering with a burnt _something_ , practically shouting, " _Bacon's on, kids!_ "

Maka squeaks and drops their clasped hands. Definitely accidentally grazes his crotch in her haste. He tries not to react, but that boner of his has a funny way of withstanding anything she throws at him, and Wes's _breakfast meat_ really just has to wait.

"Eep-!"

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you to knock?" Soul huffs, slouching. His big brother takes everything in and grins wide. Soul wants to slam the door right in his stupid smarmy face. "We'll be out in a minute, Jesus fuck."

.

He has plenty to chew on, bacon aside.

Soul chomps on his burnt breakfast, moodily leaning on the palm of his hand as Wes grins at him. His face is going to freeze like that and then he'll never be able to seduce the panties off of anyone ever again, and it's just about the only thing keeping Soul from shuffling back into his bedroom and boarding the door shut. Across the table, Maka pokes around at her scrambled eggs, lip sucked up beneath her front teeth.

He tries not to think about it. He really does. There's a time and a place for frisky thoughts - certainly not the breakfast table, with his big brother a mere seat away, ready, as always, to unearth more dirt on him - but it's difficult, when he's being yanked around like this.

Maybe he's just too introspective for his own good. Things like this - feelings, desires _, Maka_ \- are things he tends to stew on privately. Likes to lock himself in his bedroom or take a long, hot shower and let himself take the time to put the pieces together. It's easier, he thinks, than trying to put it into words and give it real-world weight. Because sometimes, his brain doesn't make sense, and sometimes he makes things up at the height of his anxieties and those things shouldn't have tangible gravity.

Of course he's thought about it. More recently, sure, than teenhood, when he's sure hormones are supposed to be out of control, but still - he's thought about it, and what it would be like with her. Or- erm. Only her. Part of him understands what she'd been trying to say; there's not another soul alive Soul thinks he might be comfortable sharing a bed with, or spooning (or being spooned by, ahem) or any other breach of personal space. And of course he finds her attractive - has there ever been a time that Soul wasn't aware that his best friend was cute? She's always been lovely, in that headstrong, freckled Maka way of hers. Never showy, never outlandish. Blonde, with a heart too big for her body. Too big for any body.

He doesn't think he'd hate it, either, if his dream is any indication on his feelings. Fuuuck, what was his subconscious trying to say? _You like it when I take charge._

"Get too much sun, baby bro?"

Scowling harder is a necessity. "Choke on it, Wes."

"I see you're still not a morning person," Wes says, patting his hand. Soul startles and bears his fork like a weapon. "Hiss, kitty."

"You know how I feel about being touched."

"Yes, sorry." Wes waves a hand flippantly. "What're your plans for today? Because I'm quite interested in seeing what the city has to offer. We could go shopping. All three of us! You could even call some of your friends and make a day out of it, dinner and all."

It just sounds like a whole lot of social energy that Soul's not sure he's ready to exert. Not while he wants to sit here and broodily stare into his plate of crispy bacon and wonder if Maka wants _his breakfast meat._

So Soul puts on his best pout instead. "Can I tap out?"

Soul doesn't like the blossoming grin on his brother's face one bit. He doesn't even have a chance to cut in or try to make an excuse for her, too, before Wes is leaning forward and asking, "So it's the two of us, then?"

Maka promptly chokes on her toast. "Hrrmh?!"

Dirty. It's either tag along and put his languishing on hold or throw Maka out to the dogs. Er. _Dog._ Throw Maka to the needy chihuahua. Not a choice any decent person should ever have to make, really. They meet eyes across the table and Maka shrugs her shoulders feebly.

There's a crumb on her lip. It doesn't even surprise him anymore how badly he wants to reach forward and brush it away. Really doesn't. Wanting to feel her warmth beneath his thumb is just part of who he is, now. Soul Evans, professional mushball, apparent lover of hand holding and face touching.

Gross.

"I could see if Liz wants to tag along?" Maka says, after swallowing. She tears apart her toast and then begins forking scrambled eggs onto the jelly. "She'll probably appreciate the distraction. Patty's finally visiting in a week and Kid's been driving her up the wall."

Soul snorts. "Yeah, that sounds like Kid."

"He just wants everything to be perfect when she shows up. You know how he is about Liz's family. Patty's the only one she keeps in touch with, and the only reason Liz is really working is to help her pay for art school - you know Kid's got enough in the bank for her to be the trophy wife she's always wanted to be."

"After everything she's been though, I think she kind of deserves it."

Maka hums and nods. Licks the jelly from the back of her fork and Soul tries not to stare at her tongue. Tries harder not to let Wes catch him staring anyway, when his willpower inevitably fails. Who is he, anyway? "Mmm. Retail therapy _is_ her favorite form of self-care."

"She has the closet to prove it."

She nibbles at the corner of her toast. "It makes me jealous sometimes."

"What, that she has a lot of clothes?" Because, given the chance, she knows he'd spoil her rotten. Dress her up like a doll in sundresses and kickass boots and leather jackets and cutoff shorts.

Maka seems to realize the can of worms she's opening and looks between the two of them. Oh. Soul takes a glance at his brother, too, and sees the same calculating eagerness in him, too. It's clear which Evans is more terrifying, when it comes to throwing sums of money around. "No. Don't even think about it."

Somehow, his big brother beats him to the punch. "What's the use of having a lot of money if I'm not allowed to spend it on things I want?"

Her lips press together. "I don't want you spending your money on me, okay?" Self sufficient Maka, stubborn to the end. Soul respects it, even if there's a tiny part of him that still wants to give back, in any way he can - fiscal or otherwise. "I appreciate the offer, Wes, but it's really not necessary. I don't like feeling like I owe people things-"

"You don't have to do anything!" Wes furrows his brows. "It'd be a gift, Maka. From your brother-in-law."

He's teased them for ages, but the color on her cheeks is brighter than usual. "We're not married!" And now he's blushing, too, great. Focus on the bacon and not the cute way her cheeks warm.

They're not married, but they live together and share a bed now, apparently, and sometimes they kiss and hold hands. They're not married, and Maka apparently doesn't care much for sex, but wouldn't mind if it was with him. Simmering, Soul shoves a mouthful of tasteless scrambled eggs into his mouth and tries hard not to gawk too openly. Tries hard not to blush harder than she is, too.

Hopeless. They're absolutely hopeless.

Wes remains undeterred. Waves a fork at her. "What about jewelry?"

"No, Wes."

"What, so I can't spoil you, either?" He's a grown-ass man, pouting at the breakfast table, as if denied his favorite toy. Thirty-something going on thirteen. "You've spent too much time with my brother. You're turning into him. Soon you'll be wearing too much eyeliner and ruining your hearing."

She sniffs and stands up abruptly. Somehow, she manages to look commanding and convincing in Hello Kitty sleep shorts. He'll never understand it; maybe it has something to do with the no-nonsense stare she shoots the both of them, as if Soul is actually actively partaking in such games. Like he's still offering to wave a wad of cash at her like some sort of sugar daddy and buy her something pretty.

She'd never let him. She's never let him, even before they were a _thing_. He'd offered to go halfsies on her prom dress, for goodness sake, and she'd shot him down. Independent, headstrong Maka to a fault.

"Thank you for making breakfast, Wes," she says, evenly. "I'll do the dishes. Soul, can you text Liz for me and ask if she'd like to tag along?"

He's not foolish enough to deny her. "Anything you want, princess."

"Please don't call me that."

Yes, ma'am. Wes leans back in his seat and gives him a look, raised brow and all. The kitchen sink squeaks to life, and it's only after the rush of the faucet drowns out the awkwardness that Soul answers his brother's wordless question with a shrug. After all, he knows better than to push anything on her. Maka Albarn might be the only person more resistant to pressure than he is. Can't tell that girl what to say or how to act - and certainly can't convince her with a pretty diamond ring to be anything but herself.

Christ, he thinks, scooting his chair in and making a beeline for his bed - how's he ever going to propose, if she won't accept a damn gift?

He catches himself blushing in his bedroom mirror. Puh. _Marriage._


End file.
